Dragons
by Annonimous4862
Summary: For a brief amount of time, the hermit remembered, and he felt he had to do something... and perhaps he did. But then he forgot, and just returned to his questions.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer - I do not own anything.**

The wind blew, causing the trees on the hills to shuffle. The tall oaks cast long shadows in the snow under the moonlight, reminding the old hermit of his home. He paced around in the tower, thinking, wondering, searching for the answer of _yet another_ question. On the back of his mind, he was aware he had gone mad. He knew, the moment he had set foot on this accursed place, that he would never be back, but he had pushed the growing feeling of dread away, looking for a way to return to where he belonged.

Of course, everything was so new, so different, other questions arose, and he looked for answer to those too. Question after question after question, until he forgot what exactly he was looking for. He was happy, too, and would have gladly perished in that foreign land, blissful unaware of whom he was or how had he gotten there, everything forgotten as he indulged to his curiosity. But then he met _him_.

It was just another day on the decayed tower - _outpost_, he reminded himself. He had liked the place the moment he laid his eyes upon it. It was broken, ripped and moldy. Clearly, no one had lived there for ages. It reminded him of...well, of something. Whatever that something was, it made him want to live there. So he moved in, and took care of the insides, and there he made his garden. Over the years, he also collected knowledge in the shape of multiple compendiums and books, and slowly but surely, he finally settled down. He did not, however, mend the tower on the outside. Not only it might call undesired attention, he also liked the ruin-ish feel of the place. It just felt right that way.

He had been tending to his garden when he saw him approach. He was a young man, his face pale and angular, brown eyes slightly slanted. A cloth strip was tied over his brown hair, covering his eyebrows and ears. He saw the youngster inspect the tower in awe, his eyes drifting from the road to the tower to the garden and finally, to the hermit himself. The elder felt the boy scrutinizing him, searching for any sign he might be dangerous. Growing impatient, he spoke up.

_"Well, are you going to help me finish these peas or not? There's a meal in it for you if you do."_

The boy had hesitated, then offered his name. _"I'm Bergan…Bergan, son of Garrow."_

It was a lie and the hermit could tell, but decided not to push it, nonetheless. To each their own secrets. _"Tenga, son of Ingvar"_, he had replied, not completely aware of what that meant.

They worked in silence, and, after it was done, "Bergan" followed him inside. Tenga had lit the fire and made them dinner. At one moment, his companion had seemed startled, but Tenga simply ignored it. They had talked, and the elder had asked the boy about the answer. At one moment, Tenga knew, he had drifted away in his own thoughts, and the other had left silently.

But that stranger had awakened something in the old hermit. That night, he dreamt. He saw a city, whose center was a tall tower; he saw a building, its stairs skirted by two pillars that held purple flames, its grids etched with an eyelike symbol. He saw a statue of what had to be a dragon, albeit a strange one – instead of four, it had only two legs, its front members fusing with its wings.

He woke up, his heart racing, his breath irregular. And, most of all, his mind was in a daze, because suddenly, he _remembered._ He remembered everything. He remembered his youth in his homeland, his long, hard studies on magic, the nights spent on the university until he could call himself a "mage". He remembered his deep fascination towards the gods and their chosen ones, in special the great dragon, and how that took him to the cold north, up a thousand steps up into the sky, to seek the wisdom of the Tongues.

He remembered how with pride he reached the top, as the ancient hero-god once had. He recalled how he had met the cloaked hermits and how after an arduous trial, he had been allowed to join them in their quest for knowledge. He felt once again the satisfaction of mastering each word, each sentence. _Force, Balance, Push. Fire, Inferno, Sun. Frost, Cold, Freeze._

He had progressed, too, onto the hardest, more abstract ones. After a while, he learnt to change flesh into ice -_ Ice, Flesh, Statue_, and even how to calm the fiercest beasts, with the power from the gods themselves – _Kyne, Peace, Trust_. He also learnt to kill. Of course, he could do it with fire or frost, but it was nothing like the sheer power of destruction behind those three words -_ Kill, Leech, Suffer_. Even time itself was no longer beyond reach – _Time, Sand, Eternity_. By the time he had mastered every word known by his veterans, his face had acquired wrinkles and his beard had grown long and grey, matching his new title.

That was also when he turned towards the prophecy. It had always been there, but the way of the voice had given him a deeper understanding.

_When misrule takes its place at the eight corners of the world...When the Brass Tower walks and Time is reshaped...When the thrice-blessed fail and the Red Tower trembles...When the Dragonborn Ruler loses his throne, and the White Tower falls...When the Snow Tower lies sundered, kingless, bleeding...The World-Eater wakes, and the Wheel turns upon the Last Dragonborn..._

The prophecy bothered him, even in his sleep. He knew the four first events had already gone past, and the fifth couldn't be far, since the Emperor had exchanged the worship of their hero-god for peace. It was an attempt to harmony that would only delay the war, and, as such, it was not hard to imagine the meaning of the fifth line. The people of the north would be divided and rebel; they would spill their own blood.

So he did what he did best: sought an answer. He realized it could only be found in one place, one of the ancient scrolls, and hence, that's where he would look. Their master advised against it; _" The Kel already said what it had to. It'll say no more."_ Despite the warnings, Tenga went. He dived deep into the ancient ruins, but while he was there, something went wrong. He never reached the scroll; he stepped into some sort of trap, and he was just…gone.

He was in an amazing world of colors and twilight.

He was amidst a great maze, twisting walls everywhere.

He was in a humongous library, the shelves progressing into infinity.

He wished he'd stop there. But he didn't. He went through other places - barren wastelands, seas of lava, vast forests… and just when he thought he couldn't take it anymore, it stopped, and he was… here.

Not in the tower, of course, but in Alagaesia. At first, he thought himself to be still in the realms of Oblivion, for he had landed next to the horrid mountains that made up Helgrind; the black towers cast an aura of evil so great, he had only seen before in the realms of daedra and other foul beings. Right now, he didn't know about daedra, but the beings inhabiting the tower were certainly foul.

That's when he began his quest to go back home, and that's also when he began to learn about this strange new world. It wasn't in Oblivion, he could tell. His best guess was that he had fallen into another realm of Mundus, although he hadn't even known there were such other worlds. It only brought more intriguing doubts to his mind.

Perhaps it was the prospect of a whole new universe, perhaps it was an aftereffect of the long path through realms no mortal should have to step on, or perhaps it was just the fact that he was so far from home; one way or the other, the second he set foot on Alagaesia, Tenga was also irreversibly mad. It began slowly, but, in the end, the insanity seeped all of his memories.

He had some eventual breakthroughs; For instance, after hearing the king owned a dragon, he set out to see it. Unexplainably, he infiltrated into the city, through the guard and into the throne room to see it, and unnoticed by even the king, he laid eyes upon the black dragon, and he found it…_odd_. Tenga had never seen a dragon before, but that was not how they were supposed to look like. That dragon was different from…from… Forcing his mind to the point it ached, he managed to extract a single word. _Martin._

Of course, that made no sense at all. The dragon was different from Martin? He didn't even know any Martin, did he? Shrugging it off, Tenga just turned back, his curiosity temporally satiated, and went off to look for another answer. That was not the only time he felt he should remember something. Once, he heard about elves in the woods to the north. He knew elves, didn't he? He was positive he had seen them before.

Now, in this brief moment of sanity caused by the visit of the boy, he found ironic that, through questioning everything, he had never wondered about his own past. He had never questioned himself. He knew why the boy had set off this reaction – he was the long awaited hero. He also knew the boy would not be enough. Maybe he could, with a lucky strike, end it all, but Tenga wouldn't let it to luck's hands. No, he had to do _something_, before the gripping madness took him over again. And he knew exactly what words were to be said.

The Dovahkiin sipped on his mead. He was sitting in a bench in Jorrvaskr, getting a well-earned rest after a long, demanding day. Strapped to his belt lay his trusty sword, Dawnbreaker, and in his back rested a simple banded iron shield. He wore plain studded armor but no helmet, leaving his long black hair free and wild. In front of him sat his friend and shield-sister, Aela.

"The moon's full tonight, Aela. Have you devised anything special?"

She gave him a glare that would rival Alduin's, and he answered with a sheepish grin.

"Some bandits have set camp in Silent Moons _once more_. I thought I'd give them a visit. I'd invite you, but you do not seem to enjoy the hunt as much as I do."

There it was. He knew he shouldn't have asked. He sighed and lowered his voice in a whisper.

"Aela, we've talked about that! I can't be a dragon and a werewolf at the same time. It's just too much! You wouldn't want me going berserk around because I can't manage two blood lusting beasts inside of me, would you? "

"I can't see how it would make any difference; wolf blood or not, you always act as a man-beast – a were-mammoth, If I might add."

"A what now?"

"A were-mammoth. Loud, clumsy, grumpy, and, most importantly, I can herd you like a giant does to their pets."

He scowled, then stuck out his tongue at her.

"I just hope you are not taking advantage of my absence to revel with that _leech_."

"Her name is Serana, Aela, and honestly, you ought to stop being so pettily jealous."

"I am most definitely not jealous! As a friend, I am simply concerned about the company you keep."

He couldn't help it; he burst out laughing.

"You mean it is okay if I consort with dragons, but prating with Serana is utterly unacceptable?"

"That is precisely what I mean."

Rolling his eyes, he responds to the matter at hand.

"No, I am not meeting with _my companion_ Serana. All I have schemed for tonight is sound sleep."

She narrowed her eyes, as if in disbelief, then nodded and got up.

"Night's falling. I should move on. Fare thee well, Harbringer."

"Fare thee well and good hunting, Aela."

She exited through one of the side doors of the building. Sighing, he finished his mead, the honeyed taste clinging to his tongue. Deciding he needed some air, he raised and stepped out of the building and into the cool air of Whiterun.

The hermit focused his thoughts and emotions to fuel his Thu'um. It was not an easy task, especially considering the particular words he was about to utter. Forcing his mind to recall memories that were already beginning to vanished, he thought about the first word. The boy, whose name he had later found out to be Eragon, had good intentions, but Tenga knew that might not be enough. He was, after all, just a boy, and they needed something else, something he was still to become. They needed a _hero_. Closing his eyes, Tenga shouted the first word.

_HUN!_

Dovahkiin was looking upon the city, his arms rested on the short wall in front of Jorrvask, when a sudden wave of nausea took over him. Feeling dizzy, he clung to the stone in front of him. Perhaps he had eaten something foul, causing the sickness. He dismissed that when his head started to pound.

Had there been something in his mead? It had happened before. Would he perhaps wake in a cell yet again? Or would he not wake at all this time? Groaning, he tried to walk towards the nearby building.

The first word was out, leaving a familiar feeling of emptiness in the hermit. He couldn't give himself a break; immediately, he focused on the second word. He didn't know who would come, but whoever did wouldn't be stranded in this world like he had. No, whoever came would only stay until his task was completed. Whether it was a task for destruction or hope, whether the One would favor the king or the rebels, was not Tenga's choice to make. He was just the summoner; the choices would belong not to him but to the _champion_. The second word came harder than the first, as he knew it would.

_KAAL!_

He knew he was in trouble when he heard it. The song. It sung to him and no one else, and he could feel it more than he could actually hear it. When the song came, his very soul followed the rhythm. And when it came, it usually meant trouble. Dovahkiin heard the song whenever a dragon was nearby – or rather, he had noticed, a hostile dragon. He hadn't heard it when he approached Paarthurnax, which led to the – rather comic – occasion of him being sneaked upon by a dragon. He didn't hear it when he summoned Odahviing or Durnehviir either. He _did_ hear it, and that had been unusual, when he fought Lord Harkon.

It was not always the same song, though the meaning behind it was the same, but the one he heard now was different from the usual. It was similar, if not the same, to the one he had heard in Sovngarde – less of a song, more like a chant. The sickness grew and the ground felt unstable behind his feet. He leaned forward to recover his balance, only to realize that it wasn't just the ground that was unstable – the very air felt inconstant and unreal.

_What in Oblivion - ?_

The emptiness grew to the point of almost madness, and Tenga knew he had to be quick. Without hesitating, he called forth the third and last word. The choosen one had to be someone special; more than just a hero, more than just a champion, what Alagaesia needed was a legend. He took a deep breath before forcing out the last word.

_ZOOR!_

The song was so loud now he couldn't hear anything else. The world spun around him, and when the ground simply vanished under his feet, he didn't have time to scream.

He felt as if falling - in every direction.

Realms passed by his eyes so fast he didn't have time to take them in. He stood, crossing through dimensions, impossible visions one after another, until, with a loud thud, he hit the ground.

The ground-breaking emptiness took over Tenga and, for a moment, everything whent black. When he opened his eyes, they laid upon a leaf – its delicate webbings were the first thing Tenga saw. They were so exquisite, so beautiful, it made him wonder what made them such. He noticed a weird feeling in his chest – a heart ache of sorts. Frowning, he touched the area, looking for a wound, but found nothing.

A voice screamed in the back of his mind, and he almost remembered something. Almost. But then his attention was diverted back to the leaf and its webbings. He wondered yet again why they were that way. Smiling, he took the leaf and went off to look for an answer to his newest question.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Dovahkiin rose to a sitting position and opened his eyes. He took in his surroundings. He was in vast grassland. Here or there, he could see a few trees, mostly oaks, on top of many short hills. A few hours of walking away, he saw what he assumed to be a village. Where was he? The vegetation didn't look like it belonged in Skyrim. Perhaps Cyrodiil?

His heart told him otherwise. It did not feel like Cyrodill, or anywhere in Tamriel, for that matter. Something was wrong, something... – he raised his head up to the sky and his heart skipped a beat. Up there, in the middle of completely unknown stars, rested one lonely moon. Only one.

_By the Nine, what have I gotten myself into this time?_

_**And there you have it. About this story:**  
_

_**I took it as a challenge from...well, someone. I can't quite remember. If you're the one who put it up in one of your stories, please let me know. **_

_**Also, feel free to correct my grammar and spelling. In fact, please do correct my grammar and spelling. I'm not native, so I might make a feel slips. Asides**_

_** from that, any suggestion, regarding anything from sentence structuring to the actual plot is welcome.**_

_**It's my first story, too, so constructive criticism would be nice. Heck, even flames would be nice.**_

_**Thanks for reading!**_


	2. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer - I own nothing**

He kept his promise to Aela. He had examined his surroundings and, after noting he was in no immediate danger, the Dovahkiin had walked to the nearest oak. He had sat under it, mingling with the shadows as few could, and, closing his eyes, had promptly fallen asleep. He'd have done no good out there as exhausted as he had been, both from his day and from the long path through Oblivion.

He woke up with the early morning sun touching his face, feeling rested and energetic. Dovahkiin took quite well the fact he was in an entirely new world, for two main reasons. First, he wasn't too worried about his actually being there. He had been summoned, he knew, and as such, he had been brought to that land with a purpose. Considering that his summoner had not found him so far, he reasoned that he'd either be contacted soon or his task was something rather obvious.

He honestly hoped it would be the latter; he wasn't too fond of taking orders, and being contacted would force him to actually _do_ what they had brought him there for – or do the direct opposite, because heck, he wasn't some sort of puppet one could simply throw around. No, he'd like it much better if he learnt of his assignment by himself; he'd fulfill it in due time and meanwhile, he'd be free to do fundamentally whatever.

The second reason he felt so carefree was that_ it was an entirely new world._ He was ecstatic by all the adventure it promised, all the new people, places, everything. In his demeanor, he was much like a child brought before a shiny new toy. He'd eventually want to go home, of course, but not until he had done what he was meant to do, and not until he had scrutinized every corner of the foreign land. Dovahkiin wasn't one to let worry spoil his experiences. He'd simply cross the bridge when he got there.

One way or the other, all options would lead him to the little village south. He'd have to go there sooner or later, if not to get some information concerning this place, then only to acquire a decent meal and a mug of mead. This led him to his next issue.

The Dovahkiin was utterly broke. It was a just state, of course – back home he'd been wealthy; he'd had a lot more coin than he'd needed, possibly more than he could ever spend. But, obviously, he did not convey all that money. Not only that'd be dangerous, it was also downright stupid – it made no sense at all to lug a bulky sack of coins around. So he left most, if not all of his gold, stored in the multiple households he owned throughout Skyrim.

The previous night, he had left his home with the precise amount of money to buy himself some mead and stew. He'd spent it all on Jorrvaskr and as a result, his satchel was ultimately empty. Not that it'd matter anyway; he doubted this world and his shared the same currency, and even if gold was something valuable in most places, carrying a foreign coin was certain to raise some questions.

He conceded he'd have to resort to less than honest ways to obtain money. Inspecting his objective, he noted the road that connected to its gates. It seemed to cross the town in a north –south route, and it was fairly active – the Dovahkiin could see people walking in flocks towards the gates. The place was probably less of a city and more of a resting stop for travelers, which benefited him, as it was unlikely he'd be noticed as more than another wanderer.

He picked up some pebbles in the ground and filled his satchel with them, weighting the sack until he thought it right, then approached the road, hiding behind a tree. He waited until the opportunity arose. Spotting a target, he sent a quick prayer to Nocturnal and snuck behind two young soldiers who were slightly behind the troop, apparently to share some kind of private conversation. Ignoring their words, the Dovahkiin focused on his victim, the shorter of the two. Nimbly, with uncanny confidence, he untied the sack where he assumed the money was and switched it for his own stone filled one, leaving to his hiding spot quickly afterwards.

Under the safety of his tree, he counted his profits, happily realizing they should be enough for a few days. His skills in stealth amused him, considering his clumsiness. He was very likely to stumble, trip and awkwardly hit things, sending them flying away in impossible directions. And don't even get started on decorating. Things would spin, twist, pivot and whirl in his grasp as if they had a life of their own, and, more often than not, he'd misjudge his own strength, thus sending objects fleeting away in ways that defied logic.

One particular night, he recalled, he'd been on the Drunken Huntsman sharing a drink with Farkas and his brother, Vilkas. The brothers had been abrupt towards him when they first met, but they'd eventually warmed up, and their friendship had culminated when Dovahkiin helped them free themselves of the werewolf curse. They'd been idly talking about Carlotta Valentia and her daughter, when Dovahkiin heard his name.

Tracing the source of the talk to a corner in the room, he took notice of Aela and Lydia, casually chatting. He beckoned the brothers to be quiet while he strained his ears to catch what was being said, expecting to hear about his stunning good looks, or maybe his manly biceps.

_"…ridiculously uncouth. It is almost as if he had two left hands",_ he heard the redhead state to her friend. That brought out a snort from Lydia.

_"More like he has two feet in the place of his hands!"_ she'd exclaimed exasperated.

He'd been about to protest when his mug slipped from his hands, flipping in the air and spilling its contents all over him and Vilkas. He'd blinked, stunned – _how was that even_ _physically possible_?! Vilkas had a blank face, as if unsure whether to be furious or laugh. He ended up settling for the latter.

_"She's right, you know. It is as if you have two feet instead of hands – two left feet, for that matter" _his brother had added merrily between laughter.

Despite his apparent lack of dexterity, Dovahkiin wasn't too dreadful when it came down to sneaking. He wasn't a natural, however, and it had taken him a lot of practice to master stealth. He'd been caught countless times, and the amount he'd paid in bounties probably surpassed his profits with pickpocketing, but once he'd became proficient in it, he was able to do astonishing feats, such as stealing a guard's weapons from under his nose, or switching an unsuspecting soldier's money satchel for a bag of rocks. Being in Nocturnal's favor also helped quite a lot.

He moved his sword to his back, where it'd be concealed under his shield, leaving only the hilt and the tip of the blade visible – Dawnbreaker was quite an exotic weapon, and it was sure to call attention. Then, once Dovahkiin was sure there was enough distance between the soldier he'd snitched and him, he took to the roads, and after a few hours, he reached the village whose name, he learned, was Eastcroft.

He hadn't any trouble getting in; he'd mingled with some travelers and the guards weren't bothering to question everyone, so he'd simply strolled through the gates and into the town square. Once inside, he perceived a message board to the left of the gates. There he saw what could only be bounty letters, the criminals' faces overlapped by two gigantic parchment sheets. They depicted two young men, the older one displaying a full beard. Both had similar shaggy brown hair, and despite the different eye colors, they seemed related. They were obviously greatly wanted, the sheer size of the pictures showed that – but Dovahkiin could not tell why or the reward; he'd just realized with irritation that the characters were different from those used in Tamriel and, as such, that he could not read.

Well, there goes his plan of finding this place's version of the _Pocket Guide to the Empire_. It was a wonder he and this people even spoke the same language… that, or magic, which was actually more likely – he knew about the existence of potions that would allow him to understand other idioms; maybe a Daedra or Divine had taken pity on him and mixed some in his mead the day before. One way or the other, it was time for plan B. He needed information, he needed food, and he wouldn't mind a drink either. To the tavern it is.

The place wasn't hard to find. Getting inside, he came upon a room uncomfortably full – he could see at least sixty people inside. Reaching the bar, he called the serving woman and ordered some ale and a bowl of stew. He'd much rather have mead, but ale was far more common and he was playing safe. He paid for what he had asked for and ate ravenously. He hadn't noticed before, but it was already late and he hadn't eaten all day.

While he ate, he observed the people. Some were clearly villagers, others, he could tell by the clothes, were travellers such as himself. And, to the corner, he saw a troop of soldiers. Amongst them was the one who had kindly provided him with gold, seeming not very happy. By now, he'd probably noticed his coin was gone. Dovahkiin did not regret stealing from them – the group's behavior disgusted him. They were loud, rude and brutal, disparaging with inappropriate words and gestures the women who passed by. He wondered why the women here were so submissive; back in Skyrim, those imbeciles would already be torn to pieces.

A small commotion in the corner caught his attention. Four men seemed to be intimidating another, who stood next to a woman, no doubt the reason of the quarrel. The youngster said something that made three out of the four back off. One of them, however, remained, defying him, looking for a fight. Dovahkiin perked up in interest. While the older man – a farmer, by the looks – was no doubt stronger, the boy had an aura around him that virtually shouted _mage_.

The boy spoke again diplomatically, and the man gave up. Disappointed he did not get to see a fight after all, Dovahkiin decided it was about time he'd moved on into his business. Calling to the serving woman, he spoke up.

"Say, what can you tell me about this land?"

She raised one eyebrow cryptically, as if questioning whether he was fooling around with her or just plain stupid.

"I am aware of how this sounds, but I hail from an isolated village and it is my first time away. I just needed some information."

Her other eyebrow went up, making her face a mask of cynical disbelief. Sighing, he put a couple of coins on the counter. She took them the started speaking. The land's name, apparently, was Alagaesia. They were in a city south of the Empire, and, further south, he'd find the independent province of Surda. To the north, there was the city of Dras-Leona, and in its east, the capitol, Urû'baen. Further north there were mountains and vast woodland, and the far east was covered by a desert. Then, taking glimpses towards the soldiers every five seconds, the woman told him about the king. He was, she said, a tyrant, and an immortal one at that.

Dovahkiin listened closely, for this sounded like it might be related to why he was here. Had he been brought to Alagaesia to free the people from this man, what was he called? Galbatorix. What a silly name. It was likely; she had said the king was a powerful sorcerer. The woman lowered her voice even more, so much that he had to inch closer to hear.

"There are rumors…well; they say the king has a dragon."

Aye. Definitively his task. Thinking furiously, he started to make up a plan to take him down. It basically consisted of getting to the capitol, killing the dragon, _Fus Ro Dah_-ing the castle walls down and killing the king. He could almost hear Brynjolf chiding him. _Not a very bright lad, are you?_

"He has also enlisted the help of another dragon and his rider, Thorn and Murtagh. I've seen them myself, flying over Eastcroft, terrifying, if I may add."

Well _damn._ That made things much more complicated, didn't it? He had no idea what she meant by _"dragon rider"_. The words were self-explaining, of course, but the concept made no sense. A dragon rider? Dragons weren't horses. They wouldn't simply be ridden. He began plotting again. He'd have to lure out the dragons. Maybe he could set up a trap, make a huge rock fall from the sky to hit one of the dragons while he fought the other, or maybe –

"But there is still hope, sire! A rebellion has risen! They gather themselves in Surda, and there is word they even have a dragon rider of their own!"

…Or he could join the rebellion. It did seem better than facing down two dragons and two powerful sorcerers at the same time. The soldiers in the corner got up loudly. Quickly changing the subject, he asked her for a room. Paying and retrieving the key, he followed her directions.

He'd been in better places. He'd been in worse places too. He was just too tired to care. Barely getting out of his armor, he lay in bed, slipped under the covers and fell into a deep slumber.

**_Okay, first and foremost, I'd like to thank everyone who reviewed, favorited and followed. I love you guys._**

**_This chapter was...blergh. Nothing really interesting happened; I'm sorry about that. It's just I had to insert the Dovahkiin into the Eragon world. The guy suddenly pops up in another world, he needs some time to get used to it. I also used this chapter to give him some background._**

**_Also, about that, I regret saying I had to bend the lore a little. The reason is, the Dragonborn is just too powerful, and while it makes him fun to play with, if written about, it also makes him... a Sue. While writing this chapter I came upon a problem. Being a Nightingale is something that adds a power that, while being pretty cool, I find completely unnecessary. That much said, I effing love Nocturnal. She was one of the few daedra princes that did not act like a complete ass; I can't possibly just forget about her. So in this story, I have the Dragonborn complete the thieves guild questline without becoming a Nightingale. Everything goes exactly the same, except he doesn't get the fancy armor, weapons and new powers. Maybe Karliah didn't offer, maybe she did and Dovahkiin refused. Hopefully you guys won't be too furious about that._**

**_Lastly, before the note gets too big, I'd like to ask about chapter length/ story pacing. I'm worried it might be too slow, since I just wrote four pages about virtually nothing._**

**_That's all, I suppose. He'll meet Eragon in the next chapter, and I'll try to make it more interesting. Thanks for reading!_**


	3. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

Dovahkiin was running. He kept his usual steady pace, trotting in the dirt road. _Left, Right, Left, Right._ He ran because he liked feeling the wind on his face, his hair swinging wildly, air tickling his stub of a beard. But mostly, he ran because he was impatient. Walking was excruciatingly slow and he was bubbling with energy and curiosity. Sometimes, he'd halt to observe an unusual bush or plant, only to quickly return to the road, but the place was mostly grass and dry earth. The scenery soon began to bore him – so he ran even faster.

Nearby people would give him the odd eye when he passed, racing as if being chased by a bear. He didn't really give a damn. _One, Two, One, Two. _Then, ahead of him, over yet another dull hill, he detected what could only be a small patrol of soldiers, coming his way. A bit closer, almost covered by a cloud of dust, he noticed two people. Deciding not to push his luck, he slowed his run into a steady walk, so as to avoid being questioned. The travelers onward seemed to think the same, for they stood to the side of the road, waiting for the troop to pass.

It seemed they'd go unnoticed, until someone, undoubtedly the captain, shouted them to a pause. After a lot of ruckus, the soldiers finally managed to make a circle, surrounding the two wanderers. The one in charge, a man with a fancy moustache, began speaking. Soon it became clear that the man was tormenting on the roamers, for no reason other than the fact that he could. The victims, he realized, were the mage-aura boy he had seen in the tavern a few days before, and, behold, the beautiful woman for whom the youngster had almost fought. He couldn't suppress a smile. _Seems the kid got lucky after all, eh?_

Dovahkiin hadn't been noticed yet. One of the soldiers poked the boy's knapsack with a spear, which set off a surprised reaction amongst the soldiers. He could almost taste the tension in the air._ Hiding something nasty, are we? _The captain spoke up loudly, then commanded one of his soldiers. Things were about to get ugly. Mages or not, two against fifteen were bad odds – the boy's destiny would be death, and he feared what might happen to the girl. _ Well make it three to fifteen_, he thought, unsheathing Dawnbreaker.

He was just in time, too. The boy moved fast, throwing a pebble that punctured the captain's helm, instantly killing him. _ Nice thinking, kid_. Not waiting anymore, he jumped in, shield in hands. Swinging his sword while jumping, he promptly removed the head of an oblivious soldier. Unfortunately, that made them finally take notice of him.

They threw their spears at him, but he was faster, raising his shield. Then, taking advantage of the brief time it took them to dismount and draw their swords, he buried his blade into the nearest man's belly, Dawnbreaker's fire consuming his insides. When he turned, the other three were already on him. He managed to parry two of the blows while almost completely dodging the third.

Twisting his sword in order to get the enemy weapons out of the way, he pushed forward, slamming his shields on the two soldier's faces. While they were still dizzy, he struck in an oblique line, slitting the first man's neck open while spilling the second's insides. The third was behind him, and he barely had time to turn, blocking his head with his sword arm. His foe's stroke was stopped by his gauntlet, sending reverberating pain through his limb. Quickly, he used the other arm to bash the man with the shield, unsteadying him, then kicked him hard, knocking him down. He dealt a finishing blow and spun to see the battle's outcome.

His allies were handling themselves quite well. The boy had killed four men, weaponless, solely by twisting their heads. The girl had somehow managed to annihilate another four who hadn't even dismounted. Impressive. Three other soldiers remained, and they had the boy cornered and unarmed. He sprung towards them, slicing one man to death. The other turned, startled, and the boy took the chance to punch the soldier's head. The blow struck with unearthly strength, bending the helmet and sending the man flying over a dozen feet. It also crushed his hand into a bloody mess.

The last man had had the good sense to flee; when they turned, he was already halfway out of sight. Dovahkiin would have been happy to just let him go, but the boy rapidly gave chase. He heard the soldier's pleas for his life, then silence._ Cold_ , he thought pointedly. The boy walked back and said something to his companion, but he didn't catch it; he was too busy checking himself for wounds. _ Limbs? Check. Head? Check. Internal organs still inside? Check. Any sores and aches…? Ouch. _

He hadn't any serious or bleeding wounds, though, asides from one long cut in his waist, inflicted by the blow he had _almost_ dodged. He was reluctant, however, to heal himself in front of the strangers. He hadn't seen any explicit incantation during all his stay in Alagaesia, which led him to believe magic was either rare or frowned upon. Perhaps it was illegal, as not even the boy, who was surely a magician, had resorted to it during battle. Hence, healing himself and thus revealing his magical aptitudes didn't appeal to him as an outstanding idea.

The situation struck him as odd; back in Tamriel, even the lowest beggar had a basic knowledge of the arcane. Dovahkiin wouldn't call himself a mage; of the five schools, he was only decent at restoration. He could be classified as an adept, able to perform most healing and warding spells. Asides from that, he knew the three basic destruction spells: Flames, Sparks and Frostbite. He had, after much effort, mastered one single alteration charm: he was able to summon and maintain a Magelight for almost a full minute. It wasn't really useful, though – if he needed light, he could get it using Flames.

His performance with the other two schools was deplorable. His illusion spells would, more often than not, backfire, hitting him instead of the actual target, and thus causing him to go out into sudden panic, anger, or stop fighting out of the blue. The one spell he could actually achieve was Clairvoyance, and even so, unreliably – time and again, it would lead him in circles around ruins or in and out of caves.

And don't even get started on conjuration. Every attempt of his to bind a sword had resulted in wild daedra attacks; every venture in Atronach conjuring led to the spell exploding in his face, and he never even dared to try and raise an undead. He soon realized magic wasn't really his best suit, so he learnt only the essential: how to keep himself alive and how to wreck things.

He had, ironically, been offered the title of Arch-Mage for his services to the College of Winterhold, which he had promptly refused, pointing out his magical inabilities. The surprised mages had asked him how then had he stopped Ancano's schemes, and he, in reply, just pointed to his sword and shield. It seemed to irk them, that the most competent member of the College was no mage at all.

His attention was diverted to the present when the boy spoke to him.

"Thank you for your aid. We'd surely be dead hadn't you stepped in."

He doubted that, somehow. The boy seemed very able of taking care of himself. He took a good look at him for the first time. He had brown hair and eyes, pale skin and slanted eyes. His features were elfish; Dovahkiin reckoned him to be a human-elf hybrid. Back in Tamriel, it wasn't something common, mostly because of the elves' conceited attitude, but it wasn't unheard of, either. His face seemed familiar, too, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

"It was nothing. What, do tell, had you in your pack that caused them to react such? "

He wasn't expecting that question. "Oh, that, well, it's just some armor. It is good quality and it surprised them. It's a family heirloom."

Dovahkiin smirked at his awkwardness. The boy had been clearly planning something less than legal, and Dovahkiin could just guess what.

"Going to join the rebels down south, were you? Seems you got yourself some company then. "

His expression changed to one of relief, and he stretched out his right hand.

"I'm Bergan", he stated.

Dovahkiin knew he was expected to give his name in return. It had been long, he noted, since anyone called him by name. People would call him Dragonborn, Harbringer, Thane, Vanquisher, Champion… and, to a whole different level, bastard, bonehead, dimwit, were-mammoth, son of a lusty argonian maiden, among others. In fact, he seemed to be called anything but his actual name.

"Call me Colin", Dovahkiin replied, and took his hand. Big mistake.

The moment he touched Bergan's hand, his blood ran cold. Electric jolts shot up his spine, making every hair on his body stand on end. His pupils constricted, and he saw a flash of blue. Then, as quickly as the feeling began, it was gone.

He pulled back his hand, startled. Bergan did the same, closing his hand in a fist, but not before Dovahkiin could see it emit a faint glow. He blinked, wondering if he had imagined the whole incident, then shot the idea down, for he had noticed that feebly, he could hear whispers. They were similar to those he could perceive near dragon walls, albeit much quieter – almost inaudible. And they were coming right out of Bergan's hand.

His trail of thoughts was interrupted by the boy's companion, the handsome woman, who had somehow materialized to her partner's side and was now glaring fiercely at him, looking as if she'd attack if he so much as twitched. They stood there, the three of them, in uncomfortable quiet for almost half a minute, the two travelers looking as if they were having a private telepathic conversation, until Dovahkiin decided to break the silence.

"So, you never did tell me the lady's name, Bergan!" he said enthusiastically.

Bergan turned, alarmed, as if he'd asked something dangerous. Maybe he had. Dovahkiin was beginning to suspect those two were more than simple peasants or rebels-to-be.

"Oh, um, yes, of course, this is… this is… Katrina", he hesitated, then added, "My wife."

Her face begged to differ. Her cheeks turned a peculiar shade of pink, and she shot Bergan a look that made Dovahkiin think the boy would be in trouble later on. She faced him, smiling, and stretched out her hand. He paused, looking at her hand as if it were a deadly trap. He did not fancy being shocked again. She was testing him, he knew; she was somehow aware of what had happened when he touched the boy's hand. She looked up to him expectantly.

Dovahkiin sighed. He was soft hearted – not too good at telling people "no". _Get me a mammoth's tusk? Sure! Help me clear my family's grave from murderous undead? Why not! Deliver this to that guy all the way across Skyrim? Absolutely! Fetch me a dozen of those flowers that only grow in the highest peak of the highest mountain? I'll be right back!" _And he was particularly bad in giving pretty ladies a "no". _Well, who cares about electrocution anyway?_

He took her hand, bracing himself for the jolting sensation, but this time, all he felt was a little static. The woman seemed to be expecting a reaction similar to that of her companion too, because for a quick second, she frowned. She proceeded to politely take her hand back.

"I've been running at a steady rhythm… We must be only a couple days' jog away from the rebels", Dovahkiin stated, "Think you can keep up the pace? I can slow down, if you need."

The idea seemed to amuse them. "There is no need for such", Bergan replied, "We were actually considering running ourselves."

They spoke no more. They bolted through the road, and Dovahkiin was glad to leave behind the slaughter site. While they ran, he could hear the whispers coming from Bergan's hand. He wondered at that – he knew it implied some sort of relation with dragons. Perhaps the boy had a scar that was coincidentally shaped as a dragon tongue word - was that even possible? Maybe the boy had been wounded by a dragon… though he hadn't seen or heard about any dragons, asides from what he had heard from the serving woman in Eastcroft. The beasts weren't common in these lands, it seemed.

They ran until the sun was about to set, Dovahkiin's bag weighting his back. _What in Oblivion is so heavy in there anyway? _ He carried only the provisions he'd acquired in the village and the few coins he had left. They made camp that night, and he took a place well away from the couple to give them privacy. He rested his back on a tall tree, his knapsack besides him, and reached out for his food.

_Clunk._

Clunk? He didn't have any metal in there. Turning, he twisted his bag inside out, shaking it, spilling its contents on the ground. Cheese, bread, a container with some wine… the Cuirass of the Savior's Hide. He was sure he'd left that at home back in the day he had been brought to Alagaesia. _What the…? _Then it occurred to him. The Cuirass was _daedric._

The first daedric artifact he had put his hands on was Sheogorath's Wabbajack. After realizing it was just too unpredictable to actually use, Dovahkiin had stored it on a chest in Breezehome. He wasn't too fond of staffs anyway. He had gone out and, upon travelling, he'd stopped by a cave. He was about to enter when he noticed…there it was. The Wabbajack.

The Wabbajack followed him everywhere. He picked it up and stored it at first, only to have it magically appear in front of him while he roamed. He tried simply not picking it up, but that wouldn't do, either – it would materialize _on _his way, making him trip. He tried everything, from locked chests to burying it. After a while, he'd just accepted he'd have to lug the thing around, a dead weight. Then one night, in a split second decision, he gave it to a wandering mad Khajiit, M'aiq the Liar. The staff did not return, and Dovahkiin took it as eccentricity on Sheogorath's part.

Not long after that, he acquired Peryte's Spellbreaker. The shield was incredible- it blocked all kinds of magic, even dragon shouts. However, Dovahkiin soon found out it not only attracted unwanted attention, it also wasn't that good for bashing on the opponent's face- an important part of his fighting style. So he put it away for a while…only to have it appear in inopportune places, just like the Wabbajack had.

It took him a while, but he finally understood the meaning of that. Daedric artifacts were made with the sole intention of entertaining its creators, the Princes, and it seemed they did not find sitting quietly in a chest entertaining. Dovahkiin realized he'd have to either use them or pass them on to the next adventurer.

He kept the shield for a while, but ended up passing it on to a kid in the College named Onmund. Azura's star stayed with him briefly – after cleansing it, he gave it to Aranea, her lonely priestess. He considered giving his next artifact, Clavicus Vile's mask, to Brynjolf, but realized he'd probably take offense to that – he was a follower of Nocturnal after all. In the end, he presented it to Vex.

Sanguine's Rose was a real pain. The appropriate wielder would be a drunken sinner, but that was _precisely_ the kind of person he did not want to give the powerful staff. He felt attached to it, too, as he knew it was once held by his greatest idol, Martin Septim. After a lot of indecision and heartache, he put the Rose in a box and addressed it to the Imperial City Palace. He had a feeling it never got to its destination, and he did not want to know.

Others were easier to get rid of. For instance, he did not hesitate to give the Skeleton Key back to its owner, Lady Nocturnal; the Oghma Infinium had promptly vanished after read, saving him the work of finding a suitable new owner, and he'd destroyed Vaermina's Skull of Corruption. He did not accept every daedra task, either – he'd refused Boethiah's offer of power in exchange for deceit, and had declined to even get near any attempt at restoring Mehrunes' Razor.

He kept one artifact, Dawnbreaker, and the sword has proven to be priceless. The reason the Cuirass was now before him is that he'd received it earlier on the very day he was brought to Alagaesia, and thus, he hadn't found a suitable owner yet. After losing the werewolf curse, and helping three others do so, he'd thought Hircine would be furious at him. He'd been eager to make it up for the prince – it was never good to be on a daedra's bad side, so he had jumped at the opportunity when he met Sinding.

To his surprise, Hircine was not upset – _"Them milk drinkers cannot handle my gift, I'm glad they no longer have it"._ Then Dovahkiin was offered another chance to earn The Huntsman's favor – taking part in the hunt. He'd arrived home with Sinding's hide, stored it, taken a little of his money and gone for a drink in the tavern, and now here he was. And here was the Cuirass.

He was reluctant, at first, to put it on. He wasn't sure whether the Prince really hadn't been mad, and perhaps the Hide was cursed. Besides, he didn't know if the armor would bring out his…_ wilder_ side, like Sinding's ring had. He knew the Cuirass was special – word was it could defend the wearer of any magic, and Dovahkiin did not doubt it, for he had seen the power of daedric objects. In the end, he decided that since he'd have to lug the thing around anyway, he might as well put it to use. Tossing away his worn out studded armor, he put the Cuirass on, then leaned over the tree. That's when he saw the paper.

The soldiers had been giving it to everyone back in Eastcroft, a roll of parchment held together neatly by a piece of string. Dovahkiin hadn't bothered to open it; he couldn't read after all. It must have fallen out while he was checking his bag; now it lay there, open.

It was a bounty letter – he could see smaller pictures of both men he had seen in the city. He realized one looked an awful lot like Bergan, except less elfish. What caught his eyes was the woman below- she was precisely what Katrina would have looked like, had she been an elf. He wondered at that- it was as if they had switched the elven features. Something was off. Then again, if those two were in fact the wanted criminals, it'd make no difference to him; so far, he had decided he was against the king. Carefully packing the paper back, he rolled over and fell asleep.

In the middle of the night, Dovahkiin began experiencing a slight pressure in the back of his mind. He immediately set up his mental defenses, for he knew the sensation – it was an attempt at breaking into his thoughts. He had experienced that many times before, and had been trained to defend against it, as it was the first step in resisting an illusion mage. He knew the importance of learning his defenses well, so he mastered them to a point that the only elusive mental spells that affected him were the backfired ones he cast himself.

Focusing, he searched for the source of the mind invading effort, managing to track it back to Bergan. Furiously, he rose, taking his equipment with him, and rushed towards his companion's sleeping site. Bergan was there, apparently sleeping. _Of course he is._ Dovahkiin poked him with his feet. The boy opened his eyes and sat up slowly.

"Colin? Is something the matt-?"

He held the boy by his shirt and pulled him up, then pushed him forward, making him stumble.

"Are you playing games with me? I know what you just did! Do not take me for stupid, runt! I am aware you are a mage, so don't you dare messing with my head! I also know there is quite some coin on your head -"

Bergan punched him square in the jaw and Dovahkiin saw stars. Dammit the kid was _strong_. Maybe he should have tried a gentler approach after all. Spitting blood, he pulled out his sword and shield. Another flying punch went his direction, hitting his ribs with a loud crack. _Ouch._ Something moved to his right, and he reflexively swung his shield, sending Katrina flying a dozen feet.

"Arya!" Bergan shouted. So her name wasn't Katrina. No matter. Using Bergan's - or whatever his name was- brief distraction, he brought Dawnbreaker down in an arc. He saw it in the last moment, dodging, but it still sliced him in the chest. Where the sword had tasted blood, his flesh ignited, making him scream in agony. Dovahkiin slammed his shield on his foe's face, knocking him down.

He was about to step forward when he was hit on his back with such vigor he fell face first into the ground, his equipment bouncing out of reach. He twisted quickly, laying on his back, and just in time, for the girl was on him. She pinned him down, holding his arms with incredible strength, their faces only inches apart.

At this distance, he could quite literally shout her head off. Instead, he charged Sparks in both hands and, turning his forearms simultaneously, unloaded them on her. She relieved her grip on him, stunned, and he seized the opportunity – throwing his weight, he spun, so that he was on top of her instead. He held both her hands down with one of his, and placed the other on her neck, choking her.

He gazed deep into her eyes, icy blue into emerald green, and something stirred within him. He had her now, and she'd submit or she'd _die_. He growled, intensifying his choke, and he felt his spirit roar. The dragon within carved for control, and as he looked into her eyes, he reached into her very soul, imposing his will, dominating, crushing…_ Get a grip!_

Dazed, he released her, rolling to the side - and just in time, too. He laid on his back and Bergan loomed over him, having just swung a heavy stone and missed by inches. Taking advantage of his position, he struck, kicking him where it hurt. The boy yowled, doubling over. Dovahkiin quickly got up and reached for his sword. He turned to see the girl was still in a stupor.

"Can't we talk about this?" Dovahkiin gasped.

Bergan, half recovered, turned to him enraged.

_"Letta!"_ he shouted. Dovahkiin did not know what that meant, but he supposed it was something insulting. The girl had gotten up and leaned against a tree, eyes wide.

"Listen," he said stepping forward, "I am confident this was all a misunderstanding. I shall not hand you in. I do not side with the king! "

He wondered if he'd said something wrong, for Bergan and the girl just stood there, mouths agape.

"_Letta!_" The boy repeated.

"Look, you can stand there and call me names, or we can talk this over." Dovahkiin sheathed his sword and raised his hands in a gesture of peace. "See? Friends."

Bergan just stood there, looking confused, then finally blurted out, "So, you're not…with the king? How can I know for sure I can trust you?"

He almost gave up his attempt at peace. "_You _can trust _me_? I'm not the one who's been lying through their teeth! Oh, it makes plenty of sense. You're being attacked by _the king's_ soldiers when a stranger leaps to your help, and you immediately assume he must be… a king servant! "

"But you attacked us!"

"No, you were probing around on my head for no reason at all, and I came here to get my answer! You were the one who started throwing punches!"

He seemed to consider that for a while. "You're right, and I apologize. I'm not the one I told you to be, but all I did was for my safety and for those I care about."

Dovahkiin resisted the urge to tell him to sod off. "And who are you, then? I recall you calling your companion something, as well."

"She's Arya. And I'm… Eragon Shadeslayer" Dovahkiin did not know what exactly a shade was – probably not the ones he knew – but it sounded fancy. Eragon observed him, as if waiting for a reaction, and when none came, he added, "Alagaesia's last free dragon rider."

Ah. So that was _him._ Dovahkiin knew it was the truth – it explained the dragon-whisperings coming from his hands, and also the jolt he had felt upon touching him. Why was he in the middle of nowhere and not with the rebels was a question he wanted to ask. He also really wanted to know how come a dragon just let itself be ridden, but he had a feeling they shared a bond beyond mount and rider.

Dovahkiin realized this was his chance. They'd have to work together sooner or later, Eragon and himself, if they wanted to defeat the king. He could tell all the truth now, perhaps even get the support and trust of two very important people, which would make his quest so much easier.

He also realized he did not like them. They had a holier-than-thou attitude that irked him. Dovahkiin hadn't asked them anything, even when he knew for sure they were lying; he respected one's privacy. They, on the other hand, had intruded on a stranger mind just to quell their paranoia. He had a feeling there was also something more – they needed to know about him more than he knew about them, they needed to always have the upper hand. _Well I ain't saying naught to you, friends._

He was mad, sore, annoyed and sleepy. He briefly entertained the thought of killing them here and now, thus ending the war and releasing him from this world. But he shrugged it off - he was too nice to help the bad side. That didn't mean he would cooperate. In the end, instead of murdering them, he decided he'd just be plain obtuse.

"So," he said, a gigantic grin plastered on his face, "You're not really married, are you? Does that mean the lady is single after all?"

Things were never easy for him anyway.

_**There you go. Again, thanks for everyone who reviewed, favorite and followed.**_

_**This chapter was by far the hardest one to write - I can't seem to get Eragon right. He overthinks everything, so I have to think his overthinking to try to imagine his actions - does that even make any sense? I couldn't seem to make him and Dovahkiin get along, so in the end I just didn't.**_

_**Another thing are the paragraphs. Sometimes they're there, sometimes they are not. Sorry about that. They are always neatly paragraphed in Word, but seem to mess up when I put it here. I couldn't figure out how to fix it, asides from editing the html source, which just isn't going to happen. So, if anyone wants to help me out with that, I'd be happy! **_

_**That's it, I guess. Hoped you liked this chapter better. Thanks for reading!**_


	4. Chapter 3

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"I beg your pardon?"

They'd been running since sunrise and it was almost midday. He was growing increasingly anxious, but Eragon had assured him they'd reach their destination soon. Dovahkiin was also upset. Not over their disagreement the previous night – he didn't regret that. What bothered him was how he'd slipped during the fight, and what might have happened.

He remembered his fight with Alduin, how he'd felt when confronting the ancient dragon-god. When his eyes met the dragon's, the effect had been overpowering. He'd wanted to flee and scream and despair, to cower in fear and desperation. At the same time, he'd wanted to give in, to obey, to be ruled. The mixture of fear and submission brought by the dragon's stare crushed his mortal soul, dominating and destroying at the same time, and he had felt his spirit scream as it was slowly and painfully ravaged. He understood then why they called him the World –Eater, and who was him, puny mortal, to deny Akatosh's firstborn what was rightfully his?

Then the beast inside him had roared. _He_ was a dragon as well. _ He _had the Thu'um, and he'd show the dragon whose was stronger. He'd snapped out of Alduin's aura of fear and reacted, letting his voice free, lashing him with mortality, with the power of Nord fury. But the moments where Alduin had taken over his soul would be forever engraved in his memories. And he was grateful for that.

He was grateful, for that had been the first time Dovahkiin felt the hold that _himself _imposed on people. He hadn't known until then what caused such terror in his enemies, what made even the fiercest foes whimper. He'd always assumed it was the fear of death. It wasn't; it was the fear of having their wills, their very souls, shattered into submission. He hadn't even known he did that, not until Aela had censored him.

_"Would you please stop doing that? It's unsettling."_

_"Doing what?"_

_"Staring at them like that. The way you look at your foes, it gives me chills."_

_"Should I smile as I run them through?"_

_"That's not what I meant. It's…as if you're not only killing them, but also breaking them inside. It's unnatural. You have the eyes of a dragon, Dovahkiin, and it sometimes scares me. I'm glad we're on the same side."_

He had sought out Paarthurnax, who'd explained how his dragon soul longed for power, how it took over weaker willed souls. Ever since, Dovahkiin has made a lot of effort to stop it from happening. He kept his dragon self at bay, trying to follow the Way of the Voice. It wasn't always easy, however, and Dovahkiin wouldn't hesitate to use his power if necessary – he just tried not to abuse it, so as to avoid waking the beast within. Sometimes, he slipped. He had been able to stop himself from doing any real harm to the girl the night before, fortunately.

He was shaken out of his thoughts by Eragon's voice.

"You knew we were lying. Why didn't you say anything?"

Ah, so that's what it was about.

"We are traveling together, Eragon, not _getting married. _I needn't to know your every secret, just have a common destination."

Eragon seemed taken aback by his reply. They walked in silence from that moment on, until around midafternoon, when the Varden came into view. Eragon's mood suddenly turned cheery.

"We made it! Murtagh, Thorn, hundreds of soldiers, Galbatorix's pet magicians, the Ra'zac - none of them could catch us. Ha! How's that for taunting the king? This'll tweak his beard for sure when he hears of it."

Dovahkiin was impressed. He didn't know who were Murtagh and Thorn, or what exactly was a Ra'zac, but it seemed the king had put great effort in finding Eragon – and failed miserably. He wondered, if their foe was this incompetent, how come they hadn't won the war yet. And mostly he wondered, if Eragon was this important, why hadn't the king come for him himself.

"He will be twice as dangerous then," warned Arya.

She was _such_ a killjoy.

"I know," he said, grinning even wider. "Maybe he'll get so angry, he'll forget to pay his troops and they will all throw away their uniforms and join the Varden."

Dovahkiin found that unlikely, but appreciated his optimism nonetheless.

"You are in fine fettle today," she added

And why shouldn't he be?

"And why shouldn't I be?" Eragon asked

His point exactly.

He observed the approaching horseman, eager to finally join the rebels and get on with the action. Then the whispers coming from Eragon's hand seemed to intensify, rising into the full blown dragon-song he was familiar with. He was reminded once again of Skyrim's guards warning. _Watch the skies, traveller._ He looked above…

A sapphire-blue dragon dove out of a cloud. Dovahkiin's pulse quickened, adrenaline shooting through his veins. It spiraled to the ground, wings tucked close to its body. Its jaws opened, a stream of fire coming out of them, making the horses panic and bolt away. There goes his ride.

It hadn't said the words, _Yol Toor Shul_, but Dovahkiin wasn't too surprised with that – dragons could do that somehow, especially with the more physical, simpler shouts – _Fus, Yol _and _Fo._ On his first meeting with Alduin, for instance, the dragon had destroyed Helgen with Unrelenting Force without uttering a single word. On a whole different level, lesser dragons would extend the word, making the shout last longer while turning it into a roar.

The dragon landed with a thunderous crash, and Dovahkiin had to bite back Dragonrend. _Friendly dragon. Friendly dragon. Think Paarthurnax, Odahviing and Durnehviir._ That wasn't really helping – even "friendly dragons" weren't all that amiable. He couldn't help it - he reached for his sword, just in case. A blast of air struck his face, and the earth shuddered underneath him… then he noticed something. Something _wrong. _ He blinked and counted again, just to make sure – but there they were. Four legs. Besides the usual back legs and wings, it also had two limbs sprouting from its front chest, deadly claws sticking out of the two front paws. _Great, _he thought, _as if they weren't already dangerous enough._

The dragon fold its wings , and something about the graceful way it did it immediately told Dovahkiin the dragon was actually a "she". He hadn't even known there were female dragons – as far as he was aware, dragons came from Akatosh himself; they were closer to daedra than they were to mortals or animals. He'd heard stories of dragonlings and dragon eggs in the Iliac Bay, but those had been proven false. Perhaps those were not true dragons – they did look different, after all. Or perhaps- and that seemed increasingly likely – things just worked in distinct ways here. It was another world, so why not?

Eragon ran towards the dragon, climbing, leaping from foreleg to shoulder to neck, then hugging its neck, and Dovahkiin could not help but think that was _such_ a bad idea. The dragon did not seem upset, however- it actually hummed, seemingly satisfied.

"Greetings, Saphira" said Arya, twisting her hand over her chest in a peculiar way.

He now knew it was definitely a she; Saphira – what a very un-dragonesque name that was. He wasn't sure about how to greet the dragon. He'd always be greeted by Odahviing with a powerful flame torrent, almost scorching him on spot. Dovahkiin _knew_ he did it on purpose. Odahviing had taken to the way of the voice, controlling his rampaging instincts, and even though he'd much rather aid in wrecking and destroying, the dragon had become gradually more civilized – he had even stopped challenging Dovahkiin for power over and over. But _still. _ Odahviing took pleasure in comparing his Thu'um, and Divines knew Dovahkiin was ablaze so often he sometimes wished he was Dunmer.

Paarthurnax, on the other hand, had taken mercy on his _flammable_ nature, skipping the fire breath and greeting him with _Drem Yol Lok _instead. That was also how Durnehviir greeted him - or almost greeted him; the undead dragon was usually so eager to be free of the Cairn that he'd just barely say the first word.

He just decided to go with simple.

"Hi, dragon."

The beast turned to face him. For an instant, they locked eyes, and Dovahkiin shivered, struggling to control his own inner savagery that just wanted to leap on and show Saphira who would rule. Then the dragon spoke to him in his mind.

_"Greetings, human."_

He'd had people speak on his head before, from crazed mages to queen Potema herself – which, he supposed, still counted as a crazed mage – but never a dragon. He blinked , confused.

"Surprised?" Eragon remarks, "You did not take her for a simple beast, did you?"

He was surprised, but not for the reason the boy thought.

"That… that is not what I thought… I just did not expect her to speak in my head, that is all."

That seemed to amuse Eragon greatly.

"What, did you presume she'd open her jaws and speak?"

_And why not? _ He took note of that as another singularity from this world.

"Ah, I suppose you are right. Then again, I've never had to worry about how was I to address a dragon."

Eragon reacted grimly to this.

"All that the wretched king's fault! One day, I swear, dragons will flourish in Alagaesia once again, their glory restored, and none will be ignorant to their ways."

The way he said it, as if that was something admirable, gave Dovakiin chills. He wondered if "dragon rider" was a species of "dragon priest", and his grip on Dawnbreaker grew tighter. Eragon took notice of that.

"You fear them, as all do, but you fail to commend to their beauty and glory."

Dovahkiin was outraged. He'd slain more dragons than he could count, one of which just happened to be a _god_. He most certainly did not fear them. He was wary of them, knew their strengths and weakness, knew their very nature better than any mortal possibly could, but fear? Not only it was shameful to fear the beasts he was born to hunt, he simply couldn't afford this kind of feeling, not if he wanted to stay alive.

However, before he could give Eragon piece of his mind, or rather, of his fist, he was approached by two men. They explained how Eragon had instructed them to find Dovahkiin a tent, where he should wait for orders. They beckoned him to follow, and he did, but not before looking for Eragon and realizing he was already far ahead. _Just him wait. _

They led him to a simple tent, nothing but a bedroll and a box where he could store his belongings inside. Above the box, he noted gratefully, they had left him a bowl of steaming food. Dumping his bag on the floor, he ate and, not bothering to get off his armor, crept in the bedroll and slept.

Early the next day, he was contacted by a courier, who said he was to report to their leader's pavilion, in the center of the encampment, as soon as possible. He picked up his bag – he never went anywhere without it – and, digging for the remaining supplies of the trip, he found some bread he ate on his way. The tent was easy to spot, for it was bigger than most, and it had a double row of guards on either side.

Some of those guards were of a species unknown to him – they looked like especially humongous orcs with horns. Others, he noted, were even more bizarre, looking like miniature men, as if someone had given an adult the body of a child. If he didn't find a "Pocket Guide to Alagaesia", he decided, he'd write his own.

One of the orc-things challenged him, saying,

"Who goes there?"

"I am Colin. A messenger went by my tent and told me your leader wanted me to report."

The man turned towards the tent.

"A man by the name of Colin requests an audience with you, Lady Nightstalker.", he announced.

"You may admit him", came the answer from inside.

He entered, curious about the one they called Nightstalker. The woman sat in a grand chair in a mostly empty pavilion – the only other furniture was a mirror, a low table, and a row of chairs arranged in a semicircle around the throne; those were, however, all empty. More guards were present; he counted at least twelve of them. On one end of the pavilion, he saw an opening, though for which purpose he could not tell.

The woman herself had ebony skin and mosslike hair, looking not so different from the Redguards he knew from Tamriel. Linen bandages encased her forearms, making Dovahkiin think perhaps the resemblance to the Redguards wasn't only physical.

"Greetings," he said, "Have you sent for me?"

She frowned, seemingly upset, and he wondered what he had done wrong. One of her guards was quick to clear that up.

"Do you not bow to your superiors, ruffian?"

He didn't, as a matter of fact. The whole servile attitude wasn't common in Tamriel, especially not amongst the proud nords. Even the jarls treated the lowest of beggars with equal footing. Perhaps the Cyrodillic milk-drinkers still held such subservient traditions, but he doubted even that – the age of slave-like customs was long past. Besides, if they did have such habits, people would bow to him and not the other way around.

He didn't want to make an issue out of that, but he didn't want to bow, either. Not only he did not acknowledge anyone as being above him, asides from the Nine and the Princes, but he also wasn't too good in taking orders. Besides, he was a dragon in everything but body, and _dragons do not bow._ He'd have to abide by their customs, though, but he refused to look this pathetic. He took a witty way out.

"Ordinarily, I do not", he said, with a grin, "But ordinarily, my superiors aren't beautiful ladies." He punctuated the sentence by bowing theatrically.

The man made as if to attack, but Nightstalker raised her hand. She narrowed her eyes at Dovahkiin.

"Eragon warned me about your sharp tongue, Colin, and I suggest you keep your wooing to yourself."

His grin turned into a mischievous smirk.

"As you wish, Lady Nightstalker.", he said, scorn evident in his eyes.

He was happy to see she didn't buy his compliant attitude. He wanted to make clear he'd take her orders only if he wanted to.

"As I stated before, Eragon told me of your deeds. You helped him. You also attacked him. "

That wasn't really fair, but he didn't protest, instead letting her finish.

"Truth is, Colin, I do not know what to think of you, and your little _attitude_ does not speak in your favor. The one way I see to know for sure where your loyalties lie is to have one of my mages to check your mind. It's quick and painless, if you do not resist, and you'll be allowed to join the Varden immediately after. "

That was too much. He exploded.

"You seem to assume, _Lady Nightstalker_, that I'll permit your grunts to probe in my thoughts. I suggest you think again. Was it Eragon's idea, to ask you for what he couldn't get himself? Or are you all that meddlesome?", he snorted.

"I've barely met you rebels and so far I've been assaulted, physically and mentally, _twice, _by both the leader and her fabled first knight. I'm starting to repent my choices – I should go somewhere they'll respect my sodding privacy. The king, for instance, sounds like a better alternative every second."

She opened her mouth to reply, when laughter echoed from behind them. A little girl strolled casually inside, though how she had gotten past the guards was beyond him. She had piercing violet eyes and a marking on her forehead. Immediately, he knew it was the same Eragon had – the mark whispered to him morosely.

"He does have a point, you know." The little girl spoke, and like her eyes, her voice was that of a grown woman, though she looked no older than four. She walked in his direction, standing in front of him. She looked up, catching his eyes.

"So much pain in this one", she whispered, "such a great inner battle you fight every second."

Rather than scared, he found himself moved. There was something fundamentally wrong with the girl, and one so young shouldn't have to suffer. Despite himself, he smiled warmly.

"Don't worry about me, _Durkiir _",he said, "I'm tough as nails."

Durkiir_._ _Curse Child. _The word seemed appropriate. A ruckus was heard outside, and a voice called out,

"Lady Nightstalker, Greta the caretaker requires an audience."

She turned to him.

"We'll discuss this later, Colin. I have more pressing issues.", then, in a louder tone, "Let her in."

Dovahkiin felt his skin crawl and reached for the pommel of the sword, then dropped his hand, as he heard a heavy _thud_, and the dragon stuck her head inside, through the opening in the tent. Ah, so that is what it is for. At the same time, an old woman entered the tent. Realizing this did not concern him anymore, he turned to leave, but felt a tug on his legs and looked down.

"Stay", the little girl told him. Nightstalker's neck whipped towards them.

"This does not concern him, Elva ."

"It concerns _me_, and I want him to stay."

Before they could argue any further, Dovahkiin's least favorite person in this world entered. Eragon was followed by a young woman with thick, curly brown hair and flashing eyes.

"You are late", said Nightstalker as they found seats in the rows of chairs. Realizing he was the only left standing, Dovahkiin took a seat for himself.

Eragon and the woman, whom he found out to be Angela, apologized for their tardiness. Then Nightstalker, whose name was actually Nasuada, discoursed about her importance to the Varden. Dovahkiin was horrified. Apparently the little girl had been cursed as a baby, by none other than Eragon himself, to feel the pain of those around her. And then, what was worse, they wanted her to keep the curse, for it was useful to them. It disgusted him that they would even consider to use a child in such treacherous ways.

Nasuada spoke, appealing to the girl's noble sentiments, the very ones she did not seem to have. When she was finished, Elva, who had been resting her small, pointed chin on her fists, raised her head and said, "No."

He hadn't expected any less. She continued. She spoke of her suffering, of how she felt the other's pain and had no choice but to endure it to. She told how other kids shunned away from her, how even adults shunned away from her. Then she finished with the most horrifying of it all – she hadn't even celebrated her second birthday.

Dovahkiin clenched his fists. He watched nauseated as they tried again and again to convince her. Then he observed as Eragon attempted to lift her curse. One thing caught his attention in the process – the fact that the magic was fueled by stamina rather than from the magic reserves. He knew magic flowed down from Aetherius into people – he'd been in the realm of the Aedra himself, and felt the essence of his magic energy. If these people's fuel had to come from their bodies, it could only mean their connection to Aetherius was weaker than his own, thus they had to compensate what they lacked in magic essence with the body's energy.

Eragon failed to remove her curse, and for some reason, Dovahkiin wasn't at all surprised. Then, in a completely unexpected twist, she realized though the feeling was still there, the side effects were gone, and, if controlled, her curse could now be turned into a gift. The desperation of having a new power not under their control was clear in Eragon and Nasuada's face, which amused him greatly.

It still bothered him that she could not, in the end, have the peace she wanted. Then a stray thought occurred to him. Elva turned to leave and he rose from his seat.

"Wait, Durkiir!" She stopped and faced him. He knelt down, so that they could look each other eye to eye.

"Yes?" she said, her tone stoic.

"I… I would like to try something, if I may. It might give you peace, if only for a brief moment."

He saw a flash of hope pass her eyes. She didn't say anything, so he took that as a consent. He opened his arms and embraced her in a hug, bringing his lips close to her ear so that only her could hear what he was about to say. Then, reaching deep within himself, he closed his eyes and whispered.

_Kaan Drem Ov!_

He felt the little girl relax in his arms as Kyne's peace swept over her. It was a shout more commonly used to tame wild beasts, but he knew the word's essence, and their purpose was exactly what it claimed to be: bring peace. They stood like that, Elva in his arms, for a couple of minutes, and no one dared to speak. Then she stiffened, and he knew the goddess' blessing was over. He released her, and saw she had tears in her eyes.

"Thank you", she said, and he knew her words were true. Then she turned to Nasuada, defiance stamped in her small features.

"Nasuada? If you want my aid, there are a few things I want in return. The first? He stays, and no mind reading."

The Varden leader seemed too flabbergasted to say anything, and Eragon was still in shock from the girl's previous verbal attacks at him. Elva swept off to the entrance and left, no one making a move to stop her. The members in the tent still seemed too stunned to actually do anything, so Dovahkiin decided he'd be better off somewhere else.

As he exited the tent, he couldn't bite back a fit of laughter. Who would have guessed he'd have friends in high places, after all?

**_And here's another chapter. Thanks for everyone who reviewed! I'm sorry this took this long - school getting in the way and all. Special thanks for those who make suggestions - they really help a lot! There is probably more I should say, but I'm just too sleepy, so I'll leave it at that._**

**_Thanks for reading!_**


	5. Chapter 4

**Warning: Language**

****Dovahkiin awoke early next morning, the first sunrays just arising in the horizon. With a stretch, he jumped off bed, too roused to go back to sleep. It was too early to get breakfast, so the leftovers from the day before would have to suffice. As he munched on a dry piece of bread, he used his other hand to pick up a rag and wipe off the dust from his Cuirass, then his sword and shield - the red dirt from the barren ground clung to everything, including, to his utter despair, himself.

He wasn't used to being this dirty, since in Skyrim, the snow kept the dust down. Another thing he wasn't familiar with was the scorching heat of the land, and the ironed soil particles clung to his sweat covering his skin with a consistent layer of grime. After he was done, he bathed in the tub, the cold refreshing water jolting him fully awake.

As he slipped on his armor, he could hear the camp stir from the activity in the nearby tents as the others awoke. He pushed open the flaps of his quarters and was about to step out, but stopped just in time to avoid stumbling on the little girl there.

Elva walked the final steps that led to his entrance. The silver star on her brow sent little whispers to his ear, the undeniable mark of a dragon, and he realized that, had he been paying closer attention, he would have heard her approach much sooner. She spoke before he could greet her.

"I am here to show my gratitude for your actions yesterday. Do not, however, think that I am in your debt. Your favor was more than repaid when -"

She continued on, but Dovahkiin had stopped listening, a bemused smirk in his face. She cut herself short when she realized her words fell on deaf ears.

"What are you smiling at? I see nothing funny."

He shook his head slowly, arms crossed over his chest in a condescending attitude.

"Such complex words for one so young! Alas, by the time you reach ten years of age, you shall be worse than Nasuada herself! You shan't be so grouchy."

Elva's face twisted in a mask of ire.

"Don't you dare patronizing me! I could torment you with words that would drive you insane! I could -"

He crouched so as to be face to face with her. His blue eyes bore into her violet ones, his expression serious for once.

"I can say words that hurt too, Durkiir. I can bring harm, and yet I chose to give you peace."

She halted, startled. He spoke no more as he stood, but the grave expression was gone almost as soon as he had uttered the final word. He opened the flaps of his tent and beckoned her inside. She shot him a quizzical look.

"I hadn't any specific plans for now, as no one brought me my orders yet. As such, nothing stops me from simply staying here frolicking. What about you, Durkiir? Have you come here with the sole intention of brooding, or did something else bring you to my humble residence?"

She followed him inside. There was no suitable place to sit on, as the tent had nothing but a chest and a bedroll, so she stood. He, on the other hand, made himself comfortable, rolling his bedding into a padlike mess in which he proceeded to take a sit on.

"I have many questions left unanswered about you," She hesitated, flushing slightly, then added, "I might also be trying to…avoid an aggravating someone."

He processed that for a few seconds, and then burst out laughing. "I see – you are fleeing your caretaker!"

Her cheeks turned a shade of crimson. "I am _not!_ Besides, I do not need a caretaker; I am plenty capable of watching over myself!"

He shrugged, still smug. "If so you say. I reckon you had questions…?"

She opened her mouth to speak, but in that exact moment, his tent flapped open once again. The woman Dovahkiin recognized as Angela bolted in, brown curls flinging unruly. She seemed oblivious to him as her eyes rested on Elva.

"There you are! I have searched everywhere! I was beginning to worry Saphira had finally decided to eat yo-"

Dovahkiin threw his arms up in the air exasperatedly.

"I have barely been here two days and _yet another_ lady visits my tent in this fine morning. I must be terribly irresistible!"

Angela took him in for the first time, remembrance passing her face as she recalled him from the day before. She cracked a wild grin.

"Aye, sire, indeed, woman cling to you as fleas to manure,"

Dovahkiin chuckled, pleased with her humor. He rose, extending his hand.

"I believe we were not properly introduced. I am Colin, as you may or may not have heard. You must be Angela."

Angela shook his hand.

"Oh, I have heard of you. Eragon spoke of you a lot, as a matter of fact."

He snorted.

"Nothing good, I presume?"

"Nothing good," she confirmed.

"Here", he pointed to the chest, "Have a sit. I am always delighted to entertain a damsel."

Angela winked. Elva buried her face in her hands with a moan.

"Brilliant", she remarked acidly, "Now I have not one, but _two_ jesters to deal with."

Angela rested on the box and Elva, seemingly realizing she would not be going anywhere soon, took a place next to her. Dovahkiin returned to his previous spot, facing them.

"Pray tell, what exactly are you?" Elva blurted out bluntly before any of them could voice anything.

"I would like to know that as well," Angela added.

Dovahkiin blinked. He knew both Elva and Angela were far more perceptive than normal. Still, he did not expect to be unmasked so soon. He hadn't spent a full week amongst the rebels, and already the two witches had noted something different about him. He could only hope others wouldn't be so quick to discover his secrets.

"Besides handsome, you mean?" he sighed, "I am many things, but what interests you is what I am not."

"And what, dear Colin, are you not?" Angela replied, "Besides handsome, I mean."

He couldn't help but laugh at her pointed remark. It was good to be around someone who wasn't so pessimistic and sulky. Still, he wondered whether to trust her. It would bring him unnecessary headache if ones such as Nasuada or Eragon were to learn about his identity. Of course, they would eventually, but he'd rather it be as late as possible. They were bound to demand his services or, worse, use him as a political puppet, and Dovahkiin _hated_ politics. He was a man of action, not scheming, and though he was not bad as a strategist, or even, surprisingly, as a diplomat, he had no patience for word games. Besides, he knew that more often than not, he had a strong tendency to affront those in power. Blame his dragon soul.

"We shan't rattle you out to Nasuada, if that is what concerns you", Angela commented, as if reading his mind. He checked his defenses, just in case she really was, but they were intact. _Guess she's just good at reading people._

"Will you not rattle me out to Ser Righteous and Ser Stoic either?"

"Excuse me?"

"Eragon", he said with a scowl, "and Arya."

Angela snickered.

"No telling your secrets to anyone", she replied, "not even Saphira"

He paled.

"By the Nine, definitively not the dragon!", he suspired again, then decided to just be done with that. "I am… not of this world."

Angela clapped her hands in delight, and Elva, who had so far distastefully watched them bicker, turned her head in rapt attention.

"Amazing!" said the older woman, "I have met others from different worlds before, and they always bring with them thrilling tales! Your land, what is it named?"

Dovahkiin was unsurprised with her knowledge of other planes. She seemed like the kind of person who deliberately looked for anything exotic, and he supposed people from different universes fit in that category.

"I hail from the cold lands of Skyrim, known as The Old Kingdom or Fatherland, home to the stout Nords," he paused, considered his words for a while, and then completed, "We are a province in the Empire of Tamriel, in the mortal plane of Nirn."

For a brief second, he saw a flash of recognition in Angela's face, but she hid it as quickly as it had appeared. It was too late, however, for he had already noticed she knew more than she let on.

"It sounds…pleasant", she said, obviously trying to mask her previous reaction.

"You do not fool me, Angela; you have heard of my land before."

"Perhaps… I might have known a man who claimed to come from the same Empire," she hesitated, wondering how much she should say, "He hailed from another place, however. Something in the likes of…Cyrodah? "

"Cyrodiil", he corrected. Already his mind raced – had this person been summoned as well, or was he the one who had brought Dovahkiin there?

"What was his name?" he prodded eagerly, "Why was he here?"

"His name was Tenga. As to what brought him here, I do not know, and I doubt he was aware of it himself. The poor elder was more than half mad." She raised her hand, silencing any further questions, "Besides, I am the one doing the questioning here."

Realizing she would say no more, he dropped the subject and proceeded to answer her many questions, but not without mentally noting to gather further knowledge about this man. He told her about the land and the war, and soon he realized her interest in alchemy. He spoke much about the plants and the alchemical ingredients, and for a long while, they discussed potion brewing. He said little about himself, however, for he was not ready to fully be revealed yet. Elva joined the conversation as well, eagerly hearing his tales and even eventually adding knowledge of her own about herbs.

They talked for most of the morning, Angela informing him about Alagaesia's conflict. She tended to miss the point, however, speaking more about the color of the enemy dragon's scales – Thorn, he reminded himself- , which, according to her, spanned precisely fifty shades of red, than the actual war itself. He didn't mind, however, for he learnt what he needed indirectly, while also getting to know things he probably wouldn't had he been talking to anyone else.

When the sun got high in the sky, Dovahkiin arose, stopping the conversation.

"I must eat", he said, "I long for a decent meal".

"I won't deny you that", Angela replied, getting up as well.

He walked up to Elva and, without thinking twice, picked her up, placing her on his shoulders. She gasped, surprised.

"What do you think you are doing?!" she protested, "Put me down immediately!"

Angela shot him an odd look, to which he replied by smiling sheepishly.

"Why? Every child likes a pickback ride!"

"I am _not_ a child", she declared irritably

"Nonsense. You are yet to celebrate your second birthay", he pointed out, "Besides, you look no older than ten. People shall see a man carrying a child and find naught unusual about it."

"And what happens when the Varden realize it is me being carried?"

"They shan't do anything, for they are too fearful of you, of course!"

He dutifully ignored her grumbling about how she wished some specific people to be fearful as well. Disregarding her objections, he left the tent with her on his back, Angela following close behind. He steered himself towards the kitchen pavilion.

Dovahkiin was halfway there when suddenly he stopped short, tensing. A strong familiar feeling struck his nerve as every hair of his body stood on end. Quickly, he took Elva off his back, putting her back to the ground. The girl gave him a puzzled look- despite herself, she was enjoying the ride, though she would never admit it.

As soon as he had dropped her, his had hands moved instinctively to the pommel of his sword and his shield, strapped in his back. As he turned to the north, his weapons already out and ready, Elva let out a pitiful wail, her hands clutching the star on her brow. Angela realized immediately what was going on, picking the girl with one hand and bringing out a knife with the other.

"What-" Angela began, questioning Elva.

"Dragon", he interrupted with a snarl, and then, without further words, bolted forward, the calling in his head getting stronger with each step as he brought himself closer to the beast. A single horn rang out thrice. He could already see a small force of soldiers approaching, too small to be anything other than a trap, but where-

_Watch the skies, traveller._

He raised his head and saw it – an approaching, steadily growing spot in the skies. His dragon instincts went overdrive. He could see the edge of the camp, but it was too far, he would never get there fast enough-

_Would Nah Kest!_

He slammed full force into one of the horned orcs –_Urgals, _he thought, remembering his talk with Angela-, sending them both toppling down. Fortunately, no real damage was done; the beast was humongous and Dovahkiin was in full armor. He got up, muttering an apology, then without waiting, ran the remaining distance to where Nasuada and Arya stood, just in time to see Eragon take flight on his dragon. He paused to catch his breath, bending over and leaning his hands on his knees. Next to them stood twelve elves, some quite bizarre looking, but Dovahkiin paid them no mind; there would be time for that later.

"What kind of spell was that?" Arya blurted, "Why are you here? How did you get here so fas-"

"Dragon!", he snarled again.

Up in the sky, the two dragons faced each other, as Eragon and Thorn's rider discussed. They seemed to have no intention of attacking each other…yet. Dovahkiin took his chance to get control over his dragon self. Taking deep breaths, he managed to subdue his wilder nature, at least as much as it would be subdued near battle and most importantly, near two dragons.

_Two dragons?_ He could only see two shapes, but his instincts told him otherwise. He could count precisely four very hostile dragon souls as far as his dragon detecting radius reached, and even if Saphira had suddenly decided to turn on him, at least two enemy beasts were missing. There, yet not there. He wondered if perhaps the riders felt to him like dragons, but scratched that out immediately. The only possibility of a non-dragon being feeling like one was if said being was dragonborn.

Locked in his mental bubble, he did not pay any attention to whatever Nasuada was telling him- or, more likely, demanding of him. _Stendarr's balls, woman, I am attempting to focus here! _ Her speech was drowned out by a roar as the dragons finally engaged in battle. He watched them twist and flap, fighting to get the upper hand. Perhaps it was the extra pair of limbs, but he had never seen dragons fight with such intensity. Or perhaps it was the fact that those dragons, from what he had gathered from Angela, were mortal. One would fight much fiercer if he knew he was fighting for his life.

Though both dragons were similar in size, Saphira clearly had the advantage. She struck Thorn with her tail, breaking his wings in five separate places. Dragon blood rained down, a single splatter reaching Dovahkiin's nose. He felt his control stretch thin and resisted the urge to join the battle; Not only he would hardly be able to differ between ally and foe dragon once he got started, but he also felt this particular fight was very personal to Eragon, and despite not liking the boy even a little, he begrudgingly respected the fact that Eragon had been in this war longer than himself. The boy had the dibs over that particular enemy and Dovahkiin would not interfere unless necessary.

Thorn began to fall. His rider took a small rounded object from his belt and pressed it against Thorn's shoulder, and Dovahkiin's heart skipped a beat. _Could it be?_

He had to know for sure. Closing his eyes, he focused, letting clawed letters form a word in his head. He felt his feelings flow into it like water into a cup. Every shout felt different – some were peaceful, others chaotic. Some were cold and others were warm, and even the same shout could be different, depending on how he did it; _Fire_ could be both a warming blaze and a scorching burst. To this one, however, there was only one description : thrilling. And just before he was overwhelmed by the simple sensation of being alive, he let it all out in one word.

_Laas!_

Dovahkiin felt his feelings flow, being converted into the Shout. He hadn't used all three words so as to avoid draining his soul; he would probably need to use other shouts soon. He opened his eyes and the world flashed black, then blurry, then his sight went back to normal and he could _see_.

Auras burned around him, beautiful, bright, colorful. There was Arya's, green and ageless. There was Nasuada's, shiny copper, radiating, though ephemeral. The Varden's solders were a mass of colors, each unique. He could see life ebbing away when flames dimmed, then detached themselves from the body, flaring up and away as the soul left to another plane in a white flash. From the distance, the battlefield looked like swarm of uprising fireflies.

He had been right about the attacking forces. Their auras hadn't the many hues of those who were alive. Instead, they all had a uniform shade of gray, dull and unnatural, the kind he was used to seeing in the undead draugrs that dwelled unwillingly through the mortal realms. Their souls had been tampered with and turned into something _wrong._ Instead of glowing the bright white of a released soul, their colorless auras just faded away as the body died. It saddened him to see the way they just ceased to exist, unaccepted everywhere, both in Aetherius and Oblivion, forced back into the Void. He knew, however, that there was no other release to such tortured souls. He realized then that despite his misgivings, he had picked the right side of the war.

He raised his head to see the burning auras of Eragon and Saphira, yellow and _dragon-blue_, kicking Thorn's _dragon-red_ and his rider, whose shade seemed to be the purple that perfectly opposed Eragon's yellow. Such precise contrast could only mean they were closely related; whether by blood or by raising, those two had rivalry that can only be shared by brothers. And on the rider's belt, he found what he feared. He could see three burning flames of tormented gray – not simply gray, but _dragon-gray._ The man held not only one, but three of what he could only describe as a dragon soul gem. Three dragons, there yet not there. His suspicions were true.

He was not even aware that dragons could be soul trapped. He had never tired, of course – dragon souls would slam right into him as soon as the dragon was done dying. It shouldn't be impossible; Durnehviir was an undying example of how immortals could indeed be chained. Though whether trapping a dragon in a stone was just another peculiarity of this realm and its unusual dragons or whether it was possible back home, he did not know. What he did know, however, was the power those stones held. It was actually a four-to-one dragon fight, leaving him one troubling truth. _The kid doesn't stand a chance._

_Laas_ faded away and he turned to see a very strained Arya finishing a spell, next to other exhausted elves. In an amazing aerial move, Saphira twisted to the left, out of Thorn's looming and into a cloud, from which she exited from above the red dragon. Dropping, she seized him by the flanks, snaked her head forward and caught his left wing in a crushing grasp.

He saw the riders in a mental struggle on top of their dragons, but neither could defeat the other. Of course not; they were so opposing, yet so similar, even their auras were complementary. They were falling quickly. Arya's face got tighter and he knew Eragon must have cast another spell. His foe had countered it, and now they fought to see whose magic was stronger. Could thirteen elves outmatch three dragon souls? His answer came when two of the elves dropped down, out cold.

He knew the only reason they weren't completely overwhelmed was that the trapped dragons were resisting – being dragons, they would never simply submit and give away energy. Broken souls or not, they would struggle to the very end. Four more elves fell down, and Arya stumbled down, shaking. Dovahkiin hustled forward, catching and steadying her. Charging up, he cast his best healing spell - she was channeling the magic between them and Eragon, and, as such, he could not let her fall. Besides, her indifferent attitude amused him, and, despite everything, he longed to be friends with her.

The sudden energy charge made her jolt up, and he decided he had waited long enough. His fight or not, the kid needed help.

"Tell him to back down!" he exclaimed

"Are you insane? If he backs, then they shall have him, and all will be lost!" she shouted, and he could hear a slight tint of panic.

"Do you want him to live?" he responded, then, without waiting for a reply, added, "He is not going against a dragon, he is going against _four_, so if you want him to live you will tell him to _back the fuck down_!"

Maybe it was his delicate use of language; maybe it was his healing magic or even his serious demeanor; one way or the other, he seemed to get through her mistrust.

"Tell Saphira to get as far as possible from Thorn," he commanded, "Then I shall handle it."

He bolted forward, not waiting for her answer, but she must have passed the message after all, for Saphira released Thorn. The rider took a dragon soulgem and pressed it against the red dragon's wound as they fell. Dovahkiin made mental calculations. He would have to wait until the beast reached the lowest point, so as to hit the shout with most efficiency. The dragon was almost fully healed now, and it opened its wings to slow down the fall. _Not yet…Not yet…_

_Joor Zah Frul!_

Every shout felt different, but this one was definitively the worst. It was made not by the divines, like the others, but by men, and that was clear. On one side, it carried the Nord's ravenous rage against the dragons, their resentment for the lives taken, the fear of dying themselves. It was bitter and aggressive and it sought to inflict pain. On the other side, it brought the glory of falling in battle, the unwavering resolution to fight until the end, and mostly, the hope for a better future. It held the essence of men and their mortality, and that was such a conflicting one, it literally tore the dragon's soul to pieces. It did not feel much better to the one who shouted it.

The ancient tongues had named it _Dragonrend_, but perhaps it should have been named simply _Rend_, because that's what it did – violently ripped every soul it touched. One would assume mortals would be immune to it, but that would be wrong. It had a weaker effect on men, of course, in special the Nords, who had created it, but what the shout did was to throw, all at once, the meaning of mortality, and that was one not even the mortals understood well. They accepted it, yes, mostly by ignoring the idea that they were finite and could at any time be gone, but few actually grasped what that meant, and thus fully resisted the shout.

The Greybeards, he knew, could take on _Dragonrend_ with nothing but a flinch. On the other hand, most ageless beings, such as vampires or dremora were incapacitated to the point they could do little more than mourn. As a general rule, however, the shout was unpredictable, and its effects varied from person to person. Dovahkiin had briefly wondered when he met the elves of Alagaesia, how much would they suffer under it.

Dragons, of course, were always dragons, and be they immortal or only ageless, the idea of _death_ was one they could not accept even when faced with it, let alone understand. To say Thorn landed would have been a lie- he crashed down the ground with as much finesse as a falling stone. The second _Dragonrend_'s blue energy touched him, closing its grasp on his soul, the dragon's wings simply stopped beating. Thorn wailed in a wounded pitiful way Dovahkiin was unaware dragons were capable of and dropped out of the sky, unable to even think through the pain, let alone move. His rider seemed to share his pain, for he also screamed in agony.

At the last second the rider was somehow able to cast a spell which prevented them from being crushed under their own weight. It did not, however, stop the loud crashing and the crater their fall made to the earth. They had fallen some thirty feet in front of him, and Dovahkiin hurried to close the distance and finish them while they were still dazed.

He never got the chance. When he got close enough to actually strike the dragon, a loud roar in his head made him halt. He raised his head to see, in the rider's pocket, the gems dissolve into rising flames. He heard the sound of battle drums and felt every cell on his body vibrate with them. The first dragon soul hit him and he was intoxicated by the thrill and energy it brought. The roaring grew louder, drowning out every other sound. Adrenaline shot through his veins and his heart sped as the second soul touched his. He began to feel nauseated. Absorbing a dragon's essence was to his soul as drinking skooma was to his body - delightful in an euphoric way. Also addictive, which became a rather dangerous craving he had to work hard to control. And, like skooma, it was unhealthy to have more than one dose at once.

He staggered, dropping his sword to grasp at his stomach, resisting the urge to vomit. _Breathe. Calm down. You can make it._ For an instant, the chanting in his head grew quieter, and he almost got it under control. Then the third dragon soul hit him, and everything went black.

**Right, I know I vanished. Sorry about that. I was busy; I had to take my SAT's and now I'm about to take my finals.**

**Also, have you seen the new Skyrim DLC trailer? I absolutely loved it, in special the new version of the main theme.**

**Thanks everyone who reviewed, followed, favorited or even the ones who just silently read. You guys make my day!**


	6. Chapter 5

There was another similarity, he would later think bitterly, between skooma and dragon souls, especially when in large amounts.

The hangover.

He was already vomiting before he could even open his eyes. He twisted belly down and pushed himself to his knees, then lowered his head in order to avoid choking. His stomach seemed to tie in a knot and he could do nothing but wait as he hurled out whatever little content had been in it, then, when it was empty, his own bile.

Once he had nothing else to spill, he rolled away from the disgusting mess and onto his back. He tried to catch his breath. His head pounded unbearably and little white specks danced in front of his vision; his muscles felt sore, his mouth was dry and to top it all off, he had no idea of how he had gotten there or, for that matter, where in Oblivion _there_ was.

He closed his eyes and let out an unmanly whimper he honestly hoped no one heard. He hadn't felt this awful since he'd woken up after a challenge from an inconspicuous milk-drinker who had turned out to be Daedric Prince Sanguine. Closing both his hands, he cast a double healing spell and let it work until he had been drained from all his magick.

His vision cleared and his pains subsided to more endurable levels, enough that he could reopen his eyes. He took in his surroundings, and the gods must have a sense of humor, because it seemed he was a prisoner. Again.

His cell, he noted, was less of an actual cell and more like a tent with improvised, high, solid walls. Light came in from the tent roof. One single door led out, and though he hadn't tried it yet, he was willing to bet his left hand it was locked. He also realized his sword and armor were gone, which only confirmed his previous impression that he was being taken captive. Though whoever had imprisoned him had done a sloppy job to say the least – the whole place seemed like an improvised set up he could very likely Shout to pieces. It made him feel a little insulted.

He tried to sort his clouded thoughts, and slowly but surely the memories of what had happened came back. He was in Alagaesia, a hateful little land divines-know-where he had been summoned through Oblivion to, divines-know-how. He was helping Eragon, an _even more hateful _boy, to kill the evil king whose name he did not remember. Or at least that was what he assumed he was supposed to do. Truth was, he hadn't done much besides talking to unusual witches and deliberately ticking off every authoritative figure he had met so far.

He tried to pinpoint what exactly about this land was so dislikable. He had a hard time doing it, for he had only been there for a short while. It wasn't the place itself, nor the war that took over – Skyrim was a barren cold land blighted by war, yet he loved it with all his heart. No, what irked him were the people, or rather, their culture.

It had had come as a shock to him when he realized he was expected to bow to Nasuada, and not only because it was uncommon among his people. Bowing, he knew, was supposed to show respect and submission, and what had startled him was that everyone had taken that for granted. That simply wasn't how things worked. His respect had to be earned, and his submission, wrestled.

The guard had questioned him on why did he not bow to his superiors, and there he found another wrong assumption. Nasuada was no superior of his. She was a leader, yes, but not _his_ leader; he hadn't even pledged his service to her. To call her his superior took all presumption to a whole new level – in one single sentence, the guard had assumed he not only respected Nasuada, but also obeyed her, considered her his leader and accepted his authority over him. He had replied with defiance, of course. But if that was expected of him, a complete stranger, then it meant it was a habit, and Dovahkiin did not understand how the people could be so submissive.

His impressions had only grown worse when they tried to convince Elva to keep suffering for a "greater good". Firstly, they had decided to do it in secrecy; back in Skyrim, such an important decision would never be made by a jarl without opinions from the Steward and the Thanes. And then the convincing itself. Dovahkiin had no other word to describe it other than "evil". They were willing to cruelly sacrifice a child to win the war, which to him was clear evidence that despite what was said, they only sought power.

He had seen Eragon struggle with the morals of that, but what had he done? Nothing. He had not given their leader his own opinion on the matter. Instead, he had said precisely what she wanted him to. Nasuada had him wrapped around her finger, and he seemed content to be her lapdog.

To him, Eragon was the worst of them all. The only fit comparison he could find for the boy was that he was this world's version of Ragnar the Red. He had power and he used it fairly, but he was also one hell of a braggart. He had the people's attention and he basked in his influence, deliberately using it to his own purposes – or Nasuada's more often than not. Dovahkiin had heard the soldiers speak about the boy's prowess in battle. He was, however, unimpressed, and rightfully so.

Tamriel's history flourished with heroes. From Saint Alessia herself, to Reman Cyrodill, to Tiber Septim and Titus Mede, every empire had risen in glory and fallen in blood. The current one was no exception: Dovahkiin knew that if it were to fall, it would fall fighting to the very end. Whether heroism of the emperors reflected on the people or the other way round, he did not know, but they walked together.

Uriel Septim VII was the greatest example: saved from his cage in Oblivion by the Eternal Champion, the Emperor had direct influence with the Hero of Daggerfall and the Nerevarine. The same Emperor, on his dying breath, had tasked the woman who would rise to be the Hero of Kvatch with finding his son and restoring the Dragonborn lineage to the throne.

She could have run then, sold the priceless Amulet of Kings for a mighty profit. She didn't. A prisoner and a bastard son, two unlikely heroes, had together saved the world and given the emperor's bloodline the most glorious fall in known history. One could not blame him if he had extremely high standards for "greatness".

There was one particular tale that appealed to him, one that, yet again, showed how both Tamrielic emperors and their people were gifted with uncanny nobility. It was one he supposed none but himself knew the truth of.

It hadn't been long after he'd arrived in Skyrim, and through a lot of dedication and hard work, he had risen on the ranks of the Companions to Harbinger. He had not seen another dragon since Helgen, and slowly the events began to seep away from his memory as an isolate, bizarre incident. He had not been the Dragonborn yet, no. At that time, he was just Colin.

Though he had traveled far and wide, there was one place he'd always avoided, one he had never expected to return. The city of Riften. He had been raised there, in the orphanage, by an abusive caretaker from whom he'd run away from at the age of ten. His fleeing path had taken him away from Skryim and roaming on Tamriel, where he lived off thieving the traveler's pockets. Since pickpocketing had not been a natural talent to him, he'd also become quite proficient in running, and though he was really fleet, he had to admit a major part of his survival was due to an uncanny luck. For some reason, Nocturnal seemed extremely generous towards him.

He knew that would eventually come back to bite him in the ass. And when he finally did go back into Riften and the business with the Guild began to edge towards the daedric side, he didn't have much of a choice.

He remembered his first meeting with Nocturnal vividly. Karliah had half tricked him and Brynjolf into becoming nightingales - she hadn't really told them what they were about to do until it was too late to turn back. The deal seemed too good to be true – Nocturnal would give them powers to use as they saw fit, as long as they guarded her realm in life and death. In a nutshell, he was giving his soul to a Daedric Prince.

Colin shuddered. He had tried that before and it just hadn't worked out. He had been provided with the wolf gift, but not how it should be. His transformations were out of control and painful. Everything about being a lycanthrope seemed to bring him agony. It was almost as if… as if the Prince wanted him to get cured, as if Hircine did not want his soul. Not even Kodlak had been able to find a suitable explanation for that.

Karliah told him to take the western circle on the ritual room, and so he did. Then, she called upon Nocturnal. She appeared in the center of the room in the form of a shimmering blue light. The Prince was furious, and Colin assumed she had a right to be; daedra did not take kindly to failure and treachery. He had been surprised Nocturnal was even willing to negotiate – he had fully expected her to blast Karliah to pieces.

He had not been too happy about the way she had offered his soul and Bryjolf's as some kind of peace offering, but alas, that was how it worked with the Princes. Then Nocturnal had turned his attention on him. The shape she took had no eyes or any kind of face to show where she was looking at, but he knew, as a chill crawled to his spine, that he was being scrutinized. She spoke.

"I will not have his soul." Her tone was final. Karliah seemed confused, unsure whether she was talking about him or Brynjolf. He knew better.

"Why not?" he almost begged. _What was wrong with his soul?_

"Another has a stronger claim on it."

That surprised him. He most certainly did not remember giving it to anyone. He hesitated.

"Who? Who owns it despite my will?"

She let out a cold laugh that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

"You shall know soon enough."

He had found out, later on, that his soul so happened to be a dragon's, and there was an irrevocable rule that said all Dragonborn belonged to Akatosh – the very god whose children he lived to hunt. Dovahkiin didn't really look forward to dying. On the other hand, maybe he would get to meet Martin Septim.

He had hoped then that Nocturnal would turn his attention towards something else, anything that not him. Lady Luck, however, was literally not on his side this time.

"I favor you, mortal. I can see my touch on you. Tell me your name."

He wondered why in Oblivion she gave him luck without even knowing his name. Maybe she just randomly picked a fortunate mortal to aid. He wasn't about to start complaining.

"I'm Colin, My Lady."

He swore the temperature dropped some good ten degrees then. Her final words, before disappearing, mystified him. She sounded vaguely amused as she said it, as if lost in memories.

"So that is why. Live up to the one before you, Colin."

She hadn't made him a Nightingale. She hadn't claimed his soul. Colin had no obligation altogether towards her. But still. He knew that Prince had aided him, over and over again, and he'd have to be really damn ungrateful not to pay it back. Besides, he owed Mercer a sword through the chest.

So he'd convinced Karliah to tell what exactly had been stolen. He went with them, into Irkngthand, after Mercer, the Key and the Eyes of the Falmer. He slew the treacherous bastard and retrieved the artifact. He held her Key in his hands, and felt there was much more to it than just opening doors. It could unlock a man's very potential. He felt the cold claws of desire close into him.

"_Take it",_ an alien voice spoke in his head, "_take it and your power shall be unstoppable."_

Colin realized the voice was his own. _Where had that come from?_ That hadn't been him. He did not long for power, did he? He shook his head to clear it.

He held the Key out for Karliah to see.

"It has to be returned. No one should hold this."

She seemed surprised he would so willingly give it up. Then she stated he would have to return it himself, despite the fact that he was not even a nightingale. _A man has to do what a man has to do,_ was his sole thought as he stepped into the Sepulcher. He followed the Pilgrim's Path. And he returned the sodding Key.

His second meeting with Daedric Prince Nocturnal was just as striking as the first. She had appeared human form this time, amid a conspiracy of ravens. He had bowed respectfully. Now _that_ was someone he did not mind bowing to.

Nocturnal had half scolded, half praised him for returning his artifact. She made a point to remind him he had done nothing more than his obligation and also affirmed his deeds had little to do with honor or with what was right – he sought only the reward. He found it unfair – those hadn't been his intentions. He wasn't really sure if, overall, he was being insulted or complimented, but he did the safe thing: stayed shut.

Then, to his utter shock, she offered him the chance to pick one of her Nightingale gifts, even though she wouldn't have his soul for eternity. He realized she was actually really happy with him, and the whole scold-praise thing was just her peculiar way of showing it. For a thousand year old chaos god, she was surprisingly _nice._

Still, she had wronged him. His aims weren't only power, and he was determined to prove her that.

"Thank you, My Lady, however, I am unsure I can accept your gift." Inside him, a little voice protested, but he quickly drowned it away. What was _wrong _with him? He had never wanted power before… before what?

_Helgen, _he though, and knew immediately it was true, _I haven't been the same since Helgen. _Something had happened on the day of his near execution, something that had changed him. There was no time to dwell on that, however, for Nocturnal was eyeing him skeptically.

"You, turning down power? _You?_"

By Sithis, why was her opinion of him so low?

"I am not Queen Potema, you know", he snapped.

Then he realized to whom he was talking to and paled.

"I- I didn't mean -"

But she was laughing in that same chilling way she had before. She might be nicer than most Princes, but she was still a daedra, and being in her presence made him incredibly uneasy. The princes were the worst – their moods were unpredictable.

"But will you bear the burden better than she did? That remains to be seen."

He hadn't realized then, but she had been talking about the dragon blood. Potema had been a Septim, after all.

"What do you want then, little mortal? Gold? Fame? Women? I am no Mara or Dibella, but I could give you some luck with the ladies. "

"I needn't any rewards, My Lady. I was only paying back your favor."

"Oh, I insist."

Colin had never seen a daedra quite so intent in rewarding someone. She was toying with him. He'd not be able to leave, he realized, until he had chosen something. His first idea was to ask for a sweetroll, but the Prince would probably turn him into one.

And therein lay his dilemma: he could not ask for anything too insignificant, because it would anger her. And he could not ask for anything great, for it would prove her right about his greed. _Night Mother's tits, now what?_

_Just ask for some damn gold. Who cares if she finds humanity despicable? _

But it wasn't about humanity, it was about _him. _She had made her thoughts clear – humans were piles of Skeever dung, but _he_ was the smelliest of all. She expected him to be greedy, power hungry and immoral, divines know why. _What in Oblivion does she think I am, a dragon?_ Then an idea occurred to him.

"Tell me about the one before me" Her words had piqued his interest the last time they had met.

"A tale? Is that what you wish for?" She put on a puzzled expression. She had genuinely expected him to cave into her pressure._ Got you._

"Yes."

"Very well.", she relented, suddenly cheerful. "It is one tale I enjoy. I take it you have heard of Umbriel and how it fell?"

He mentally thanked whichever divine watched over delicate conversations that she approved of the subject.

"A flying city which spawned near The Hist over a hundred years ago, and was taken down by the combined work of the College of Whispers and the Synod.", he replied.

"A clever political scheming by Titus Mede the first, to let them have the credit, but that was not what really came to pass. There were five of them, five heroes who took it down. There was crown prince Attrebus Mede, a previously unknown girl named Annaïg Hoïnart -"

"His wife?"

"The very one. An Argonian named Mere-Glim, Annaïg's companion, and my sister's champion of sorts, a dunmer named Ezhmaar Sul." She drew in a deep breath before continuing.

"And then there was your namesake, Colin. He was a Penitus Oculatus agent."

A spy, then. No wonder she found the story pleasant – this man was definitely one of hers.

"Colin was interesting, to say the least. He was inherently… good."

She said "good" the way he might have said "three eyes" or "forked tongue".

"Not unlike you, might I add. You two have more in common than just the name."

She proceeded to eye him as if he had three eyes _and_ a forked tongue.

"T-thank you", he stammered, surprised by her sudden opinion change. _What happened to skeever dung?_ She ignored him.

"The five worked separately but together into stopping Vile's abomination of a city. Colin played an important role in that. He was an intelligent man – he traced the summoning of the city back to the culprit, found the treachery in the heart of the Emperor's most trusted advisors. He single handedly defeated powerful daedra with naught but a knife and was able to free Prince Attrebus and devise a way for him to reach Umbriel. His 'goodness' was his undoing, however. He died by the hands of the woman he had grown to care for."

"How so?" he prodded

"She found a way to seize the City's powers. She backstabbed him and bolted to the White Tower to claim them. He caught up to her. At the last moment, she gave him the chance to join her, and he refused. They attacked together. Neither missed. Why he refused her still eludes me."

"Did you…" he stopped, unsure on how to continue.

"Did I claim him? That I did. Think of him as you walk the shadows, little mortal."

With a flicker of her wrist, she opened the gates leading outside.

"You are a peculiar one...with a great destiny to uphold. I believe you just might succeed. But whether you do or not, you will still entertain me much. Have my blessings, little mortal, and go, for I have business to attend to."

And just like that, she vanished, gone in a flash of blue mist. He decided not to test her good mood any longer, and hurried out of the temple.

He was fond of the story because it showed that in Tamriel, the people and the rulers were in equal footing, and treated as such. There was none of the boot-licking he saw in Alagaesia in ridiculous amounts. Attrebus Mede had not married a noble; instead, he had picked a hero, and he loved how merit spoke higher than bloodlines.

And Colin… through the shadows, his namesake had saved them, and in the shadows he had remained. He had never hoped for fame, power or influence, and his only recognition had come in death. He was proud to carry the man's name.

His dwellings had given him time to rest, and he could finally sit up. He scanned his room again and saw a tray with bread and a jar of water, lying next to the closed door. Groaning, he made himself crawl to where the food was. He went for the jar first and as he drunk, he tasted a sweet tang to the water. He perceived the definitive feel of magic suppressors and felt his connection to Aetherius dim.

Dovahkiin weighted out his need for magic versus his need for food in a possible escape. He picked food, despite the drugs. He wasn't much of a mage anyway, and, besides, his magick reserves would not recover fast enough to cast anything besides little candlelights.

Even if they did, he reckoned in an extreme situation, his very special relationship with Aetherius would be enough to break through the barrier raised by whatever was in his food. Not only he had absorbed a lot of dragon souls, he had also stepped in the land of the gods themselves. All of this made his magick easy to flow, though it did not at all facilitate his learning of spells – on the contrary, it made them even harder to control.

And, most importantly, magic suppressors did not affect his Thu'um. The meal was poor, but soon he began feeling better. He got up and tried the door – locked, of course. The drugs on his food had made it very clear he was not a guest. He knocked the door halfheartedly, to let his guards know he was awake. Then he sat down and waited for the interrogation that would surely come.

He forced himself to remember how exactly he got there. He remembered a fight, Dragonrending Thorn out of the sky, then… of course. On his haste, he had ignored the possibility that he might be more attractive to the dragon souls than the soulgems they were contained in.

His approach had made the gems dissolve, liberating the souls inside, which then proceeded to slam into him. He had once managed to absorb two dragon souls at a time, but three was simply too much - he had been knocked out, and right in front of an enemy dragon, too. Thinking back, it was actually a good thing he'd woken up in a cell and not in, say, Sovngarde. Then again, considering that his soul would go to the realm of the god _whose firstborn he'd killed_, Sovngarde did not sound so bad.

A sickening feeling of guilt almost made him retch when he realized he'd taken dragon souls again. He hated it, hated the delight he felt when he took them, hated his hunger. It was absurd – his human side found it wrong for the exact same reason his dragon side found it right – he was a dragon too, in all but body. It didn't help that before Helgen, when his dragon soul had been awoken, he had been mostly a good, compassionate person.

He had every right to claim his fallen opponent's essence, and he surely wanted to. But his human self would tell him _no_, it was wrong, he should not slay and devour the dragons, for they were his brothers and if he did that, he'd be no different from Alduin himself. What he got as a result was an insane mix of pleasure and guilt that threatened to drive him mad every time.

His dragon self was immortal, unstoppable, unbeatable. He wanted to give in and let it take over. It would be much easier, would save him a lot of suffering. Let the strong side tear the weak to pieces. But what would become of him then? Would he still be himself? He knew he wouldn't. An image of The First, towering over a pile of dragon bones, flashed on his head. He pushed it away with a shiver.

He was brought out of his reverie by loud speaking outside. The door opened, and Nasuada and Arya stepped in. He had assumed his captor would be the king or one of his forces. Still, it did not surprise him that the ones who held him were actually the Varden, his supposed allies. His lack of surprise did not mean he wasn't furious.

He also realized he had been sulking, which he could most definitively not let those two notice. Nasuada looked at him with what could only be triumph. Oh, he'd show her. If there was someone smug in that room, this person was him.

He decided demonstrate why exactly he had been admitted, first try and without questioning, on Skyrim's Bards College.

"Thorn is red", he recited, "Sapphira is blue. Arya, sweetheart, I love you."

He'd fetched them an ancient relic. _That_ was why the bards had admitted him.

Arya clenched her jaw and he saw fury spark on her green eyes. She drew in a deep breath. Dovahkiin grinned. _Almost._ He'd get through her intricately built mask, eventually.

"Colin", Nasuada said icily.

"Lady Nasuada," he replied in the same tone, "How long have I been out?"

"You will find that I am the one making the questions here, Colin."

There were, Dovahkiin mused, three kinds of authoritative figures. The first one was those whom he obeyed, _or else._ That was the case of Daedric Princes, for instance. And even then, he sometimes went with the "else" option.

The second kind was that of Jarl Elisif the Fair : those authorities he obeyed because he respected. He'd follow Elisif's commands, even when he disagreed with them, because he honestly believed she knew better. She was competent, she was, as her name said, fair, and most of all, she did not expect him to follow her orders just because she was Jarl. Not that it mattered much; she'd found out soon enough that she could have his soft-hearted self to do fundamentally anything, and all she had to do was say "_Please"._

And then there was the third kind of authority – the one he did not fear nor respect, and the one he was delighted to spite. That was precisely where Nasuada fell in.

He turned towards Arya, ignoring Nausada entirely.

"So, Arya!" his tone was merry, "How long have I been out?"

He heard Nasuada's huff of outrage. Arya glared at him, but remained shut. He decided he'd let some information slip, just enough to make her curious. He threw the bait.

"Arya dear, I have been in this world for about a week, and you have only graced me with your voice once – to express your concern for another, nonetheless! You break my heart with your refusal!"

Speaking of which, where was Eragon? He thought the boy would be here to question him. If he were a dragon rider, he'd certainly be interested on the man who shouted a dragon out of the sky.

"What do you mean, been on this world? There are no other worlds to be."

He _knew_ she would bite. Leaving her to dwell on that, he turned to Nasuada.

"Your First Knight seems to be missing, Lady Nasuada. Did something unfortunate happen to him? That would be a pity."

"Eragon is _fine_", she snarled, "He is too busy to be bothered by the likes of you."

_Liar._ He closed his eyes, focusing. Slowly, carefully, he released the tight bindings he kept on his dragon soul, just a little bit. The Song exploded on his head, coming from various directions. He took a deep breath to help sort out his senses, then pointed to the direction it rung lounder.

"There is Saphira." He turned, eyes still closed, hand extended. He could almost grasp the Song in his hands. He felt for it, with his fingers and with his soul, until he found the second loudest source. It was much quieter than Saphira, barely louder than a hum. Eragon's dragon touch had run much deeper than that. He identified the source as Elva.

"That must be Elva, there", he pointed. There were still many other little sources, so quiet he could barely hear. One of them stood right in front of him. _It's Arya_, he tought, surprised. So the others must be the elves. There was something draconic about the Alagaesian elves, something ancient but still strong. A pact of some kind. _Like Dragon Priests._ He would have to look into that later.

He quickly traced lines in the air, connecting dots only he could feel.

"Twelve elves there, one elf here." His suspicions were confirmed. Eragon was nowhere to be found.

"And no Dragon Rider anywhere." He punctuated the sentence by opening his eyes.

The look on Nasuada and Arya's face was utterly priceless. _Who's smiling now, eh?_

_"_Lady Nasuada!_" _he exclaimed, as if he had just seen her there, "I have been wondering… how long have I been out?"

"Two and a half days. How did you know Eragon is not among the Varden?", said Arya. Nasuada shot her a reproaching look.

Oh, so she was willing to play his game. Smart girl.

"_Dovah Sil_, _Dovah Sos_. I can tell."

"What does that even mean?"

He shook his head at her.

"My turn, fair Lady. Where is your brave Rider?"

Arya rubbed her temples aggrievedly. She shot Nasuada a questioning look, but the woman beckoned her to continue.

"He is away. He went to oversee the dwarves' choices of a new king. "

"You mean he went to pressure the dwarves into choosing the king Nasuada wants. Ah, Ragnar the Red."

"That is none of your concern!" Nasuada snapped.

"Indeed it isn't. Your turn, Fahliil."

Arya chewed her lower lip wonderingly. He knew she was trying to pick which of her questions was the most important. If he was in her place, he would ask about throwing dragons out of the sky. Yes, that would be his top priority.

"How did you knock Thorn down? I have never seen anything like that. What kind of spell was that?"

Maybe she did have her priorities straight, he pondered.

"I called him names. He was offended."

Nasuada looked as if about to hit him, but Arya raised her hands, stopping her.

"You are cheating." Her tone was accusing.

"Oh? I wasn't aware we were playing a game."

"Yes, you were, and yes, we are. You owe me two answers."

"I didn't know you played games."

Nasuada was growing increasingly impatient. Arya sighed.

"I used to. Not anymore."

"Is that so? And why, pray tell, did you stop?"

Her face twisted in a cold smirk.

"You owe me two answers."

Gods dammit, he had bitten her bait. Dovahkiin breathed deep. It would be a long day.

**Okay, I'm really not happy with this chapter. I'll even erase it if you guys find it as bad as I do.**

**What I was trying to do with it was show how Tamriel's butt kicking clashed with Alagaesia's extreme bureaucracy, as means of explanation of why the Dragonborn disliked Eragon so much.**

**Don't get me wrong- I really like Eragon. But what I felt is that, specially during Brisingr, which is when this is set, Eragon's role was a lot of 'blah blah blah politics'. Especially that part with the dwarves. Dear God, that was insufferable. I found myself enjoying Roran's chapters more than his. And come on, I can't be the only one who ran around jumping on tables when the Jarls in Skyrim started blabbering. **

**One thing I have in my head is that The Elder Scrolls heroes are kinda like the Avatar Cycle - one man, one woman, alternating. So if I have a male Dovahkiin, then the Hero of Kvatch was female, and the Nerevarine, a male, and so on.**

**Another thing is that, to me, Faolin - you know the guy, Arya's previous boyfriend - would have to counterbalance Arya's sternness. You know how they say opposites attract? So, for short, he would be the kind of prick that drove her completely insane. Point being, the Dragonborn might be surprised to find she's incredibly good in bickering. **

** Some may recognize the story from "The Infernal City" and "Lord of Souls", two books based on the Elder Scrolls Series.**

**That's it, I suppose. Next chapter, they will be wanting explanations, which the Dragonborn will try very hard not to give.**

**Thanks for everyone who read, reviewed and favorited!**


	7. Chapter 6

He absolutely refused to say a word until he had been released from the cell and fed a decent, not drugged meal. He sat in Nasuada's pavilion, empty except for said woman, Arya and himself. Dovahkiin realized the Varden leader wished to involve the smallest amount of people possible, and the elf's presence was only because he impishly denied her any significant information. After a while, she simply stopped talking and let Arya act as a go between. He drained his tankard and slammed it on the table to show he was done.

"Two answers, Colin", Said Arya patiently.

He smiled at her.

"Yes, I am single, and yes I am looking.", He gave her a flirtatious wink, "Save your questions, Fahliil. I will cooperate."

She raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"Will you? You have been awfully uncooperative so far. What changed your mind, I wonder?"

Leaning forward, he tensed, the carefree teasing expression off his face for once. Somehow, his icy blue gaze managed to hold both Arya's green and Nasuada's deep brown.

"You did," he said in a slow, deliberate snarl.

"You think you own me, but you don't. I tried to make that clear but you refuse to acknowledge it. You insist on high and mighty attitude even though you do not know me _at all_."

He turned to Nasuada with a glare that would rival Ulfric Stormcloak's.

" You will certainly want to tell me what to do once you realize what I am capable of. I am not like your Rider. I am not yours to command. And I will be as much as a thorn on your side as you expect me to be. "

She opened her mouth, but he silenced her with a vicious growl.

"I will not bow down to you or anyone else. Do not expect me to follow you quietly despite my convictions. When it comes down to being led, I am not even remotely akin to Eragon. And so help me, if I find your ruling disagreeable, I _will_ question it and I _will_ challenge you, Lady Nasuada, be it in public or in private."

If she was fazed, she didn't let it show. Dovahkiin had to admit she was a strong ruler. The cuts on her forearms were proof enough that she had both the will and the vigor to lead her army. He had no actual desire to overthrow her or disrupt her leadership in any way, but he was intent on showing her that authority was not the same as overbearingness.

Dovahkiin would treat others as equals and would take no less from anyone, and nor, in his head, should any other person._ It will be a highly educative experience for her_, he mused,_ if only she learns_.

She glared right back into his eyes and he added bravery to one of her qualities. Not many had the guts to stare him down.

"Is that a threat I hear, Colin?"

"A forewarning. I am not a schemer. I won't _drug your food_. I won't stab you in the back. My actions will be open and loud, but not less effective because of that. Tread carefully, Lady Nasuada. Expect me."

Then he sat upright again and his goofy smile returned.

"But! That is not why we are here, is it? I recall fair lady Arya wanted to know more about me. The directions to my tent, perhaps?"

Arya frowned at his sudden mood swing, whilst Nasuada seemed to be carefully seizing him up for the first time.

"Are you always such an imbecile?" the elf asked sharply, visibly annoyed at his antics.

"Yes!" his simile widened. "I pride myself very much in being _such an imbecile,_ the same way you likely pride yourself in being as stoic as a brick. Maybe we can get through each other's shells? A good friend of mine once told me you do not learn much about something by sleeping with it. Perhaps we could prove her wrong!"

Hidden between layers of brazen teasing, he had offered her an honest try at friendship, and he hoped she had gotten the message. Her expression remained unchanged, however.

A loud rumbling sound followed by shaking ground announced Saphira's landing nearby.

"Oh, the dragon comes! Invite her in, will you not, Fahliil? I have been quite rude to my fellow Dovah. And speaking of which, whatever happened to Thorn? I remember little after I shouted him from the sky."

"He...escaped." Arya said absently, and Dovahkiin realized she must be mentally talking to Saphira.

"He _what?!_ By Hermaeus Mora's tentacles, you had him! "

"We have no means of keeping a dragon and his rider captive, Colin."

She had a point. Not everyone had Dragonsreach nearby.

"Yes, and this is why you kill them!"

She eyed him with disapproval.

"It is not this simple. Suffice to say Eragon owed that rider a debt, which he paid by letting him go. Besides, you shan't be so quick about killing a dragon."

He would love to point out that a dragon wouldn't think twice about killing him, however, Saphira picked that moment to insert her head through the opening and into the tent. He decided since he was going to spill his identity anyway, he might as well address her properly.

"_Drem Yol Lok, Dovah. _I admit have been avoiding you. _Krosis._ I believe introductions might be in order. _Zu'u Dovahkiin. _"

The dragon's eye widened. Arya turned to Saphira.

"Do you even understand what he says?"

_"His words hold ancient power I cannot fathom. We dragons have memories that cross generations, and those words stirred something from remote times in them. I can grasp their meaning, but I cannot hope to explain it."_

Her speech shocked him.

"_Hetsedov Lost Niid Thu'um? _Have the dragons here no Voice?"

_"I do not know what you mean."_ Saphira replied.

He gaped at her. Then he burst out laughing. It wasn't his usual, lighthearted chuckles, however, but a dry, cruel sound.

"_Ful, Losei Dovahkiin? Zu'u koraav nid nol dov do hi._ You do not even know our tongue, do you? Such arrogance,to dare take for yourself the name of Dovah."

He paused to catch his breath.

"Those were hisfirst words to me. And look at where we stand now, Dovah. I know your tongue while you do not. The sheer _irony_ of it leaves me breathless. "

"You make less sense by the second." Said Arya, rubbing her temples. "Let us start from the beginning. My first question still stands. How did you know Eragon was not among us?" she continued.

Nasuada, who had been quietly watching, perked up to hear his explanation, while Saphira seemed intent in questioning Arya with her mind. He politely waited until he had both the dragon and the elf's attention.

"I can detect dragons and those touched by them. Eragon has a very distinctive dragon connection, and it was easy to tell he was away."

His reply only created more questions.

"How?" _"What are you?"_ Said Arya and Saphira simultaneously.

"It is like a song, except I cannot only hear it, but also see, smell, feel and taste it all at the same time, and when it sings, my blood and soul sing back. It is… hard to describe."

He then looked at Saphira thoughtfully.

"_Zu'u Dovahkiin. Zu'u fron wah ney Dov arhk fin reyliik do jul._"

"What did he say?" questioned Arya.

_"… He claims to be kin to both man and dragon."_

"That is impossible."

He crossed his arms over his chest stubbornly.

"_Dovah sil, Dovah sos, Jul kopraan. Ful los Bormah fen."_

_ "He claims to have the blood and soul of a dragon in a man's body. So is the will of his father."_

"His father?"

_"Not in the literal sense, I believe. He must be talking about a deity of sorts."_

Arya looked at him furiously.

"Preaching? Is that what this is all about? And would you please speak a language we can all understand?"

He smirked and shook his head slowly.

"_Zu'u ni nol het. Daar lein los ni dii. _"

Saphira eyed him for a long time. He held her gaze. They stood like that for so long, Arya felt the need to interrupt.

"Well?"

_"It does not make any sense."_

"He hasn't made any sense so far. I doubt more nonsense will make a difference."

_"He says he is not from this world."_

"But-" she stopped, frowning. "It is not the first time you say something like that, Colin. Where exactly are you from?"

"Skyrim, the Fatherland, a cold province in northern Tamriel." he replied.

"I have never heard of such place."

"My point exactly." He answered smugly.

Then, to Saphira, "_Keizaal. Taazokaan. _Bring back any memories?"

_"An ancient land covered by white snow. A mountain so high it touches the sky."_

Dovahkiin pondered how she could know that. Tamrielic dragons were immortal children of Akatosh, closer to daedra than to a common animal. Alagaesian dragons, on the other hand, were more beast than god. There was, however, an undeniable connection between the two – besides the bad attitude, that is.

He briefly wondered if Alagaesian dragons had traded the Thu'um and their godhood for an extra pair of limbs, but shot down the ridiculous possibility with a scoff. From Daedra to Aedra, anything could have changed them, or they could be an entirely new species made by Akatosh for whatever reason. He decided to just drop it.

His exchanges with Saphira were making Arya increasingly confused.

"And what exactly brought you here then?" she asked.

"I am unsure. I have been summoned, but I do not know by whom. I believe I was brought here to help end your war."

"That's…presumptuous."

"Not at all. Here is Saphira. She dies, the war is over. I have had more than one chance to kill Eragon, too."

"You say it as if a dragon was easy to slay."

He shrugged.

"It most definitely isn't, nor do I like the idea. But it is what I born to do, and do it I will if I deem it necessary."

"Born to do?"

"I am Dovahkiin." He repeated simply.

"You keep saying that word. What does it mean?"

"It has two distinct meanings. _Dovah_ means dragon, and _kiin,_born. In your tongue, it translates as Dragonborn, which is what people refer to me as. Dragons, however, use Dovahkiin as my actual name, which suggests a different meaning. I am a dragon in all but body, and convention holds that a Dovah's name consists of three words. "

He paused to let that sink in.

"_Dov. Ah. Kiin._"

_"Born Hunter of Dragonkind"_, Saphira translated flawlessly.

"You are…a dragon hunter?" she looked completely horrified.

"I am the ultimate dragon slayer, for who is better equipped to hunt a dragon than another one? Like the Dov, I am master of the Thu'um, and should a Dovah fall by my hands, I claim his soul as it is my right."

"That's- I have no words for it. It is barbaric. That you would hunt them as mere beasts- You are a monster."

Dovahkiin could see the barely contained fury in her eyes as she spoke, one of her hands flying to the pommel of her sword. He had to bite back his own anger. Standing abruptely, he slammed his fists on the table.

"You ignorant _lewd_! Do you expect me to watch as they burn down our villages? As they kill our children? As they subdue our men into undead or slaves? Should I sit down and watch as my world is destroyed, as my people's very souls are devoured? "

She rose too, her eyes into his.

"If you are to be taken as reference, I'd wager your people are too uncivil to understand the meaning of peace treaties!"

Divines help him, he would strangle the woman. He clenched his hands, then took a deep, unsteady breath.

"The one reason you are still alive is because you have absolutely _no idea_ of what you are talking about."

Saphira halted their argument with a fierce roar. Dovahkiin's head snapped towards her and he snarled right back.

_"That is enough. Arya, your people were not quite so civil when they destroyed our eggs, were they?" _

His head turned back to Arya.

"You speak foul of me when your people sneak-kill unborn dragons? You hypocrite! Every dragon I have killed has been bested in fair combat and offered a chance to yield! And I must add that while I am called Hunter, they are the ones who hunt _me_ down!"

Arya turned incredulously to Saphira.

"You are taking his side?"

_"I am not taking anyone's side. Dragons are quite capable of defending themselves and if they chose to challenge him and lost, they must bear the consequences."_

"He is a dragon hunter!"

_"He is what he is. I will admit you have perked my curiosity, Dovahkiin. It would please to meet you in battle." _

"What?" Arya and Nasuada -who had so far been looking increasingly concerned- protested at the same time. A feral grin crossed Dovahkiin's face.

"Of course it would. Just pick when and where."

"I won't have you two at each other's necks!" Nasuada exclaimed, standing up as well.

"You almost sound as if you can do anything about it" he snapped

_"We do not have to fight to the death, only to the yield."_

"If I win", he ventured, "I get to ride you."

Saphira growled, smoke coming out of her nostrils.

_"And if I win?"_

"You get to ride me?" he suggested innocently

She snorted.

_"If I win, I'll have you fetching my mead."_

He didn't even know dragons drunk. They probably drained whole barrels at once.

"Deal." He replied without further thought. "It is late. I ought to get going." He turned to Nasuada.

"So, will you send me in a mission or shall I idle in a tent all day?" he questioned.

"I am not sure I can trust you with a mission."

"I won't change sides, if that is what you mean."

"Perhaps, but can you follow orders? Can you work in a team under the command of a captain?"

"Of course I can do teamwork. I am Companion, you know. As to following orders, well, I can do it, as long as they make sense. Also, I would love to have my armor and sword back."

"You can get armor and weapons from the smiths tomorrow."

"You don't understand. I want to have _my _armor and- You know what? Forget it. They will come back to me anyway."

Then a truly terrifying possibility crossed his mind.

"I just hope you don't have any idiots tampering with the enchantments. That could end really, really badly. Especially the sword. Hircine can throw vile curses, but Meridia is the one who is extremely touchy about the whole defiling business."

From the way Nasuada paled, he could tell she did have idiots tampering with the enchantments, which meant there was a worrisome possibility that he would wake up to a raid of Aurorans.

Searching, he found on the table what he was looking for – a long carving knife, stuck in the remnants of his meal. He picked it up and slid it into his belt. He expected Dawnbreaker to reappear soon, but took the knife just in case. It was dangerous for him to go around unarmed.

"Expecting an attack?" Nasuada questioned, eyeing the knife sharply.

"Nasuada, dear, my life is split between dangerous situations and _extremely dangerous_ situations. I am always expecting an attack. And even so, attackers still manage to surprise me."

And with that, he turned away and walked towards the exit.

"Wait!" Arya exclaimed, "You still left many things unexplained."

She had made a gross misjudgment of him and wounded him with her words. Still, he decided he wasn't really mad at her. She would realize her mistake eventually and apologize, and he would definitely rub it in when she did, but, that aside, Dovahkiin wasn't really one to hold a grudge. Unless it involved impaling him with a sword, of course. Of course, that left him with only one course of action. Taunting and teasing.

"Like what did I mean when I said Eragon was actually fighting four dragons? Or how do I know that Thorn's rider - what is his name again?"

"Murtagh?"

"Exactly! You must be really wondering how do I know he is Eragon's brother."

At that, Arya and Nasuada gaped. Even Saphira' s eyes widened.

"Oh, damnation! You weren't aware I knew, were you? I suppose that was meant to be a secret." He scratched his stubble, as if in deep thought.

" Yes, there are really a lot of things you do not know… we can resume this conversation in the future, Fahliil. Just come find me. I'm usually in my tent."

He waited for the inevitable question. She could always ask someone later, but Dovahkiin was betting she would want the precise information from him. She clenched her fists and closed her eyes.

"And where-" she stopped. She seemed to be struggling with her words. He just kept on grinning, amused. She let out a resigned sigh.

"Can I have the directions to your tent, Colin?"

If his smile could get any larger, it would split his face in two.

"I thought you would never ask!"

He told her where he was located. Then he turned to give Saphira a proper goodbye. "_Lok, Thu'um._ Sky above, Voice within. Farewell, Dovah." She replied with a slight nod.

Something occurred to him as he opened the tent flaps, making him halt. _Should I, or should I not?_ Arya had a steel self-control and had so far managed to show little to none reaction to his mischievous remarks. However, he had already distressed her enough and he reckoned he was excruciatingly close to cracking her shell and getting a non-apathetic response.

He wasn't sure why that was so important to him, but it must have had something to do with the cloud of gloom he could practically see hovering above her. She was aloof, lonely and withdrawn and desperately needed something to vent on. Or, in this case, someone.

_Why are you even doing this?_ His sensible self questioned in his head. She had offended him, she deserved it. Besides, maybe it wouldn't irk her as much as it does to the elves back in Skyrim_._ _What are you, suicidal? _ Maybe he should listen to his self-preservation instincts.

_Oh, who am I kidding?_

He locked eyes with Arya and spoke the dreaded words that had gotten him in trouble so, so many times.

"Stay out of trouble, _little elf_."

Then he finally listened to his reasonable side and ran.

**Okay, I know I promised more action on this chapter but they just really needed to have this talk.**

**Speaking of which - if I got anyone out of character, then, by all means, please tell me! **

**I have special trouble in writing Arya. No, seriously, I can write Aela better than her, and that is saying a lot, considering Arya is a main character while Aela can't have more than twenty lines the whole game.**

**I think the source of my trouble lies in the fact that we don't really see that much of Arya. She is usually stoic and emotionless, which would be fine, if we didn't see her through Eragon's point of view all the bloody time. His constant ogling puts her in a pedestal and it gets really hard for me to see the actual character. I mean, in his point of view she's like an Italian marble statue : cold and flawless. **

**I wish we could have had at least one chapter on her point of view. It would have been really clarifying. **

**That aside, thanks to everyone who read, favorited and followed. I can't believe I'm edging on five thousand views. You guys totally rock. **

**Hey, I even drew you Colin so that you know more or less what he looks like. Please forgive my sorry excuse for "art".**

******FF won't let me post the actual link, but if you wanna check it out, it's a tinyurl link. Just add this to the ending:**

******(slash) aewdlap**

**That's it, I guess. Next chapter, he's meeting Roran, and I can see those two having a complete bromance.**

**Thank's for reading!**


	8. Chapter 7

_Clunk._

"_What in Alduin's butt scales_- oh"

He grumbled as he pushed away the Cuirass, who had rudely awoken him by materializing over his head. Rubbing his eyes, he got up and searched for Dawnbreaker, but, unlike his armor, his sword still hadn't returned. If it didn't come back soon, he'd have to go looking for it- he doubted he could stay alive for long with only a carving knife as a weapon.

It was still very early; the sun was yet to reach the horizon. He washed, and was just about to put on the breastplate when he was interrupted by the entrance of a boy. He handed Dovahkiin a carefully folded note. "From Lady Nasuada", the kid muttered quickly before turning back and rushing away.

It wasn't until he was done strapping his armor that he remembered he couldn't actually read. He opened the note, looking frustrated at it, as if giving it the evil eye would make the unfamiliar runes suddenly make sense. He had already realized that, despite being able to understand and be understood, the language he had been using was not his own.

When he talked, his words would naturally come out in whatever was spoken in Alagaesia, but paying close attention he could clearly detect the sounds and words that did not belong to his mother tongue, and he had to make a conscious effort to speak Tamrielic. He wasn't sure what kind of spell was that or who cast it on him, but it did not extend to written words.

Dovahkiin frowned. Now he would have to go to Nasuada to see what she wanted, and not only didn't he like the woman, he also did not want to give her the satisfaction of knowing his limitation. Another option occurred to him – he could get someone to read him the damn note. He had, however, a limited amount of people he knew, and he doubted a random stranger would take kindly to his dilemma, or even be able to help.

There was Elva, although he was unsure whether the little girl could read; there was Angela, but he couldn't use his dragon-senses to track her down- though the woman was usually with Elva. And then, of course, there was Arya, whom he had blatantly infuriated the day before. A lopsided smile crept on his face. He stuffed the note on his pocket and slid the carving knife in his belt. Then he set off to find the elf.

He followed the dragon-priest like whispering the elves emitted. There were only thirteen of the Mer amongst the Varden, and he could tell which one was Arya because the twelve banded together while she was always alone. It would take a little time, but he would eventually attune himself with her specific frequency, thus being able to find her even in a multitude of other elves.

Dovahkiin stopped short a few feet away from what he assumed was her tent. He wondered if he could sneak up on her. _I don't think she'll take kindly to that_, he mused before slipping into a crouch. He sunk into the shadows, and moved with silence and precision that could only be supernatural. The darkness engulfed him to such depth, a man standing right in front wouldn't be able to detect him.

He stopped by the flaps of the tent and peeked. It was indeed Arya's tent, and compared to his, it was like a queen's room. It was furnished with a table and a chair, where the elf sat on. Opposing that, there was a bunk bed and a chest, further behind, a tub, and to the back, a shelf with some of what he supposed were her personal belongings – books, a bow, her sword, among others. A lute caught his eye- he hadn't taken her for the musical kind. The illumination inside was dim – the sunrays hadn't reached the sky yet, and the only light source were the candles on the table.

The elf herself seemed deeply engrossed in writing something. Her quill flew at impressive speed from the parchment to the inkwell and back. Every once in a while, she'd flip the paper or get another sheet. He timed his moves carefully, and just as she reached for more paper, he pushed open the entrance and slipped in. With a silent roll, he quickly ducked behind the chest and into the shadow, feeling the comforting embrace of former thieves and spies.

He heard her shift and get up. He focused on the ruffle of her footsteps, letting himself merge with the environment, becoming invisible. She paced around the room, searching. Adrenaline coursed through his veins- he knew if he as much as twitched, she'd have him, and the thrill was delightful. He steadied his breath, stabilizing his quickened pulse.

She turned, looking straight at where he was with a furrowed brow. Had she seen him? She walked on his direction, until she was only a few feet away. _Nocturnal_, he mentally begged. A chill crept through his spine and he knew his prayer had been attended. The elf got closer, until he could almost feel her breath. Then, with a confused expression, she turned and walked back to her chair. _Thank you, thank you, thank you! I swear the next decent meal I get is yours as an offering._ Of all the daedric princes he had chosen not to defy, Nocturnal had definitely been his wisest choice.

A thumping sound reverberated when she sat down again with a sigh.

"Must have been the wind", she muttered under her breath.

Dovahkiin smiled. It was _never_ the wind. The steadfast scraping of her quill against the parchment began again. Slowly, carefully, he moved out from his hidden position and crept through the room. Step after silent step, he approached her until she was within arm's reach. He placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Hail, Fahliil!"

She must have jumped some good ten feet through the air, sending her quill soaring towards the wall. Dovahkiin had no time to laugh, however, for he was too busy taking note of unexpected pain and clutching his suddenly broken nose. Little black spots danced in his vision.

"Ouch! What in Oblivion_?!_" he spat through bloody teeth. Divines, he hadn't known it was possible to punch this hard and fast. Her eyes widened in recognition, though he wasn't sure how could she identify him through his distorted face.

"Colin? You startled me. I'm sorry."

"No, you aren't!" he hissed irritably.

A wry smile touched her lips. He mentally cheered. It was the second time he had made her smile – through masochistic methods that involved him harmed one way or the other, but still.

"Well, not particularly. Where did you come from?"

"I walked. Through the entrance." It wasn't technically a lie. He cursed, blood dripping from his nose to his fingers. He was about to cast some healing magic when Arya sighed.

"Here, let me fix that. _Waíse heill!_"

The spell rung oddly familiar to his ears, though he couldn't quite place it. Dovahkiin winced as his bones were set back to place. Once it was done, he tapped his nose with his fingers to check if everything was in order, then, much to Arya's distaste, went to wash his face on her tub.

"I did not hear you entering" She made it sound like an accusation.

"You were really focused on writing", he said in between water splashes.

"You should have knocked."

The fact that he had been able to sneak up on her was really getting under her skin, it seemed - she was especially uncomfortable with being taken by surprise. Dovahkiin decided to look into that later. He also swore to himself he would do it more often, and wearing a helmet next time.

"It is a tent_. _There is no actual door to knock." He pointed out wittingly.

"You should have announced yourself! What if I had been doing something private?!"

"Like changing, you mean? Because I fail to see the problem in that."

He thought she would punch him again right then, but instead, she just ran her hands through her hair exasperatedly.

"I am extremely occupied, Colin. What is it that you want? And how did you find me, anyway?"

"You mean I cannot seek you out for the sheer pleasure of your company?"

She rubbed her temples, as Dovahkiin had noticed she did when she was impatient. He decided to be nice and give her a break for once.

"Here," he said, pulling out the note from his pocket and handing it to her. She read it with a serious face, then looked up at him and raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"Well, what does it say?"

"Is this some sort of joke? You came all the way to my tent and stopped my work -" She halted, thinking about what it meant for a second.

"You…cannot read?"

He shrugged.

"Not this language, no. I am unsure on how can I even speak it. The note, what is it about?"

"Nasuada expects you to join Captain Edric's expedition today by noon. What language do you speak where you come from?"

It was barely sunrise, so he calculated he had a good amount of time to find his sword and get something to eat before joining the other soldiers.

"The official spoken language is Tamrielic, or as some would rather call it, Cyrodiilic, though some provinces have different dialects. Myself, I know Dragon, of course, and also a little Ehlnofex – that's an ancient dead Merish language. "

"Why did you study a dead language?"

"We had a little… invasion, from Oblivion, some time ago, and that is what they spoke. Considering my constant involvement with the Princes, I decided knowing it might not be a bad idea. Though the languages themselves are not usually so distinct – what differs the most are the alphabets. I know four – Tamrielic, Dragon, Daedric and Falmer. It is odd to think the Falmer have a written language, what with they being blind and all."

Arya gave him a lost look, as if she did not know half of what he was talking about, which, he concluded, she probably didn't. He didn't understand how someone could not know about the Daedra, though.

She opened her mouth to ask him something, but was interrupted by a woman who rushed in,_ without _knocking. She was quite attractive, Dovahkiin noted, with silken black hair and striking blue eyes not unlike his, though without the draconic touch. His attention, however, was diverted towards the sword strapped to her back – Dawnbreaker.

"Hey. That is mine." He blurted.

Arya scowled at the newcomer, her face turning sour, and Dovahkiin realized she must like him, if only a little, because she never looked at him with such scorn.

"Trianna." She said coldly, "I believe you are interrupting -"

"I apologize, but there is no one else – I need – I can't -" the woman, Trianna, sounded panicked.

"The sword. Give it to me." He insisted, but was ignored.

Dovahkiin did not know much about daedric artifacts or the obscure ways they were forged, but if there was one thing he could affirm, is that each one had what could only be described as a personality. The Wabbajack, for instance, had this hilarious sense of humor – at the worst situations, it tended to summon very helpful Mudcrabs, or worst, _enemy_ dremoras.

Plus, even those less deranged than the Wabbajack were unpredictable. Sometimes, he knew, the artifacts would turn their owners insane, or escape their bindings and hijack giant floating cities, or both. He could tell - he had felt the lascivious effect of the Sanguine Rose.

Dawnbreaker itself, though not particularly maddening, was a very quirky sword – it loved setting things on fire. He had learned to read the blade's mood through the shining light on its hilt, and, right now, its reddish tone showed that it was just as impatient as he was.

He let out his fiercest growl - the one he usually saved for vampire overlords or hostile dragons. The women's heads turned to him.

"_Give. Me. The sword._"

Trianna drew the weapon, her hands shaking, but did not hand it over. Abruptly, the blade hissed and burst into flames, making the woman drop it with a yelp. Dovahkiiin did not hesitate; he ducked, quickly retrieving his sword. A pleasant warm jolt ran through his skin when he touched the grip.

"Glad to have you back, Dawn." He whispered as he slid the sword next to the knife on his belt. The light pulsated a clear white, and he smiled. If every sword was a lady, he mused, then Dawnbreaker was a Cyrodiilic noble lass of mass destruction.

"Now," he said as if nothing had happened, "what is the matter?"

"My magic – it is gone!" Trianna replied

Arya's face turned from distaste to genuine curiosity. "What do you mean, it is gone?"

"I cannot feel it anymore – the energy, the magic pool, it- it just vanished!"

Arya stepped closer to her, extending her hands towards Trianna's brow. "May I?" she questioned, to which the human nodded. Arya touched the woman's forehead, and for a while, they just stood there, staring in each other's eyes. When the elf came back to herself, she looked deeply troubled.

"I have never seen anything like that. Your connection to magic, it is as if it never existed. What were you doing when it happened?"

"Analyzing the enchantments on that sword. I have never seen anything similar – so intricately complex yet so simple, it is as if the weapon had life itself. It released a blast of blue energy and my magic was just - just gone!"

Suddenly everything made sense. He knew Meridia wouldn't take kindly to defiling. And she was plenty capable of doing something such as cutting one's connection to magic – not only her realms were the Infinite Energies, it was also rumored that the Prince used to be Aedra herself, one close to Magnus, no less. He ran his fingers through the blade, feeling it prickle.

"She cut your connection to magic," he uttered, making both women turn to him again. Arya eyed him skeptically.

"What are you talking about? How can a sword cut anyone's connection to magic?"

"It is not the sword itself. Or, maybe it is, I'm not sure. But it was given to me by a god who is very sensitive about defiling."

"There is no such thing as gods", Arya said firmly.

"Aye? Try telling _them_ that."

Her statement made no sense to him. It was comprehensible that one would not revere the Aedra due to their small influence on Nirn, but even so, their powers could be felt, if only on the shrines. And the Daedra were a complete different matter – they took pleasure in messing with the lives of the mortals, who were constantly reminded of their presence.

Ignoring the outraged elf, he spoke to Trianna.

"You are not a necromancer, are you?"

She just stared at him confusedly.

"Only shades are necromancers. I am a sorcerer – I bind spirits to my will, though it is something I avoid."

She just had to be a conjurer, hadn't she? It made Meridia's forgiveness much harder to come.

"No undead, though? Absolutely no draugrs or liches or zombies or wraiths? No corpse raising whatsoever?"

The woman shot him a look that seemed to question his sanity. He sighed.

"You could try apologizing; make her an offering of something undead. Meridia might restore your magic then…maybe. She isn't known for being sympathetic."

She still eyed him with a disorientated face. Dovahkiin felt a pang of compassion; damn his soft heart to Oblivion. She likely deserved the punishment she got for tampering with forces she did not understand. Still, blocking one's connection to Aetherius, where magic flowed from, was a cruel penalty.

"What did you call the creatures who are necromancers?" he asked

"A Shade?"

"Yes, that; a Shade, whatever that is. If I come across one, I will fetch you its heart. That should please Meridia enough to at least listen to your pleas. There isn't much more I can do, though. I'm sorry."

Arya gave him a flabbergasted look.

"You have no idea of what a Shade is, do you?"

He made a dismissive gesture with his hands.

"I am guessing it is an undead creature of sorts? Can't be much worse than a Vampire Lord. You underestimate me, Fahliil."

"And you underestimate a Shade, Dovahkiin."

He flinched at her use of the title.

"Do not call me that. Only dragons and the Tongues refer to me as Dovahkiin. Call me Ysmir, if you insist on a title, but I'd rather you call me by name."

He looked up to find the sunlight already touching the whole tent.

"I must go – I am expected to join Edric's expedition before noon, and I have yet to breakfast. Fare thee well, Trianna. I hope you get your magic back."

He turned to Arya, and brusquely embraced her in a hug. She flailed, pushing him away and almost sending him flying, and he noted for the umpteenth time that she was ridiculously strong. She gazed him with fury.

"What do you think you are doing?!"

By the way she was approaching him, he guessed he would get his face broken, again.

"_Kos pruzah, Malfahliil!_"

_Be good, little elf._ The dragon language words halted her for an instant. "What-" He let out a jovial chuckle, then bolted away from the tent before she could tear him to pieces. As he fled, he could just hear her infuriated yammering over his own laughter.

Though he already knew the kitchen tent's location by heart, it took him a while to actually get there. By the time he was done eating, the sun was already almost reaching its peak, and he had to hurry to find Edric's group.

After a lot of wandering and questioning, he came upon a force of around three hundred soldiers, already departing. He found the captain leading the line, to whom he reported to. Edric took his time to give him a severe verbal lashing about punctuality. He kept his face impassive, muttering "Yes, sir" when he thought appropriate. He didn't usually let others chide him, but he knew how to behave when in an army – he'd been in the Legion, after all.

He was given a horse and followed the column. Thrice that day, Edric scolded other man for little deviations. On the third time, Dovahkiin was riding right next to the captain's victim.

"Have an end to your dawdling, Stronghammer, lest I change my mind about you and leave you to stand guard with the archers!"

"Yes sir! As you wish, sir!"

The name Stronghammer rung a bell, but with all the information he'd had to remember since arriving on Alagaesia, he couldn't place it. He decided maybe talking to the man would refresh his memory. He reined his horse closer.

"I don't like him." He said bluntly.

"He is a competent commander," Stronghammer replied as he got back on his horse - a noble looking white stallion.

"You don't like him, either", Dovahkiin pointed out. Stronghammer scowled.

"As a matter of fact, I don't."

The man turned and Dovahkiin could see his features clearly for the first time. He had shaggy brown hair and grey eyes, and was built sturdily. On his belt, was a hammer, and a common one, too – not the battle made variety. It seemed an inappropriate weapon, but Dovahkiin could hardly say much himself; his backup blade was, after all, a carving knife.

He offered the man his hand.

"I am Colin," he stated.

A look of recognition crossed Stronghammer's face as he shook his hand firmly.

"I am Roran. Roran Stronghammer. "

The name fell into place then, and he realized who exactly that man was.

"You are Eragon's cousin", it wasn't a question.

"That I am," he said simply.

That Eragon's cousin was in this same expedition was just too much of a coincidence. They trotted along in silence for a while, until Dovahkiin decided to ask the question that was bugging him.

"Did Nasuada order you to keep an eye on me?" he spoke casually, though he was curious to hear the answer.

"She did, actually. I have been wondering why. You haven't struck me as troublesome so far." Roran replied in a matter-of-fact tone.

His suspicions confirmed, he could not help but think how Elva would tease him if she found out that Nasuada had assigned him a caretaker, too.

"She gave you a task without even explaining why? That is _so _like her. Let me quench your curiosity. I am extremely troublesome, for I so happen to be dragon!"

Roran faced him, theatrically looking him over from head to toes.

"Of course. It all makes sense now! You are a madman."

Dovahkiin narrowed his eyes at him.

"I am a mad _dragon_."

They burst out laughing simultaneously then, attracting Edric's wrath once more, earning them a place in the back of the troop for the rest of the day. Roran didn't seem to mind, though, glad to be free of the captain's antics for a while.

As they separated themselves, following orders to take a flank each, Dovahkiin had time to catch Roran's hushed whispers.

"I really want to see you breathing fire."

Dovahkiin smiled. As unlikely as it could be, it looked like he and Eragon's cousin would really get along.

* * *

**Well, there it is. Not much to say about this chapter, I guess.**

**I've begun to get used to the mechanics of this website and all, and I'm thinking maybe I should get this thing beta'ed, even though I don't really know very well how the beta thing works. Any volunteers? **

**That aside, thank everyone who favorited, followed and reviewed!**

**Thanks for reading!**


	9. Chapter 8

_She did it on purpose_, he thought bitterly as he shifted stiffly on his hidden spot.

It took them around six hours to finally reach the small village, going through rocky and bumpy ground. The place had no more than twenty houses, and upon seeing the approaching imperial forces, the villagers had promptly gathered their belongings and fled. Roran had suggested revealing their presence to the men, reassuring them, and asking them to fight with the Varden for their homes. Dovahkiin thought it was not a bad idea, not at all. Of course, Edric had rejected it instantly.

He knew Nasuada had done it intentionally. She had put him under the most unreasonably strict, excessively chastising, madly controlling _asshole_ of a captain she could possibly find. He knew discipline was necessary in an army – after all, despite his misgivings, he was a Legate in the Imperial Legion.

What Edric did, however, was not disciplining; it was massacring. He made sure nothing even remotely creative or interesting would happen on his watch. Nasuada had clearly wanted to test how far his military obedience would go, and his determination to not cause any unnecessary trouble was running dry.

"We're lucky they are on foot," murmured the scrawny magician whose name, he reminded himself, was Carn. The man was a friend of Roran's and seemed nice enough. "We would not have been able to get here first otherwise."

Their force had been split in three, and Dovahkiin managed to quietly slip into Roran's company, if only because Edric was just plain despicable and Sand, the man in charge of the other third of the army, did not strike him as particularly capable.

He also realized he liked Roran. From what he had seen so far, the man had a very straightforward, down-to-earth attitude. He was practical, and unlike his cousin, seemed to avoid much politicking. Even so, he was a natural leader. Upon seeing Dovahkiin join his forces, Roran's words had been "Stick close to me and make my watching you easier, will you not?"

The way Roran seemingly disregarded Nasuada's orders to observe him in favor of the much more important incoming battle showed Dovahkiin that the man had his priorities in order, and it pleased him to no end that Stronghammer would take efficiency over boot-licking.

He had heeded Roran's command to stay close and followed him and Carn to peek on the future battle site. The trio now stood hidden on the top of a hill.

"I don't see any of them with missing hands or legs or other injuries of note, but that proves nothing one way or another. Can you tell if any of them are men who cannot feel pain?" Roran said.

"I wish I could. Your cousin might be able to, for Murthagh and Galbatorix are the only spellcasters Eragon need fear, but I am a poor magician, and I dare not test the soldiers. If there are any magicians disguised among the soldiers, they would know of my spying and there is every chance I would not be able to break their minds before they alerted their companions we are here."

"Man with no pain?" Dovahkiin asked, puzzled. Then something clicked. "Like the ones who attacked together with Murtagh and Thorn?"

Carn and Roran eyed him as if he was mentally impaired.

"Yes, like those" Roran said slowly, as if explaining a child something obvious.

"This is my first mission, give me a break." He snapped curtly. An idea began to form inside his head. If man with no pain were always made the same way, which was likely, then…

The word was out before he could even think twice about what he was doing.

"_Laas!_"

Darkness. Blur. Then the world exploded into colors and his previously sour mood suddenly lifted, because everything was so picturesque and he was so _alive_. The first thing he noted was Roran's aura, a burning passionate red fire. Then there was Carn's light blue. Dovahkiin whished, not for the first time, he could see his own aura.

He had intentionally not poured much into this shout, and he knew it would fade soon, so he quickly looked towards the actual reason he had Shouted. The enemy soldiers – _Divines, there are so many of them! - _were still far away, but even so he could discern the different hues and tones that defined them as normal men, not the walking, soul-tampered things he had seen before. He blinked as the effects of Laas dispersed.

"What was that?", Carn asked, a tint of worry in his voice. "Your eyes suddenly turned really…unnatural. There is no other way to describe it. Are you all right?"

"I am fine. The soldiers, they are just normal men. A _lot_ of normal men, if I might add."

Roran suddenly eyed him with rapt attention.

"Are you sure? How do you know?", he prodded.

"It is complicated. But yes, I am positive.", Dovahkiin replied

"Can you tell how many of them are there?" Roran insisted.

Dovahkiin noted once again how much he liked the man's practical demeanor. Anyone else would have pushed him on what exactly had he done. Roran, on the other hand, went straight to the point –the information itself and how could he use it.

"No, but they outnumber us greatly, this I can tell for sure."

Roran took time to process those new pieces of knowledge. Shifting on his feet, he winced slightly, as if pained by a not so old wound.

"Are you well?" Carn asked, concerned.

"It won't kill me", Roran said, then thought better. "Well, maybe it will, but I'll be blasted if I'm going to wait here while you go off and cut those bumbling oafs to pieces."

"What is wrong?" Dovahkiin asked

"Got my leg torn by an ox. It hasn't fully healed yet." Roran grumbled

Charging up a spell of healing hands, he extended his hands on Stronghammer's direction.

"Allow me", he said, and without really waiting for a confirmation, let the life energy flow into the wounded man. Roran's eyes widened when the spell touched him, then he relaxed as the magic healed his injuries, from the open rip on his leg to the scratches on his face. Carn watched his casting stupefied until he was done.

"How did you do that? You didn't say any words!" Carn exclaimed

Dovahkiin tilted his head, confused.

"Of course not. It's just Restoration." He stated what to him was obvious.

"It felt different from the way Eragon healed me", Roran added.

It was Carn's turn to look puzzled, and Dovahkiin was reminded that those people did magic differently from him, receiving little from Aetherius and fueling it most from their stamina. It was a weird concept.

"As the magic energy flows into me, I convert it in life energy, and when it reaches the body, it heals." he explained, "That is Restoration. It's a really simple conversion. I could use an incantation, but it's unnecessary. Likewise, when I'm doing Destruction, I convert this same energy into flames or sparks or cold."

To exemplify it, Dovahkiin charged Flames, intrigued by Carn's look of fascination. He closed his fist, dissipating the spell.

"Alteration and Conjuration are not so simple," he continued, "Uttered words, though not mandatory, are highly recommended, because it's much more elaborate; it goes far beyond simply turning one kind of energy into another. It's one of the reasons I don't do very well in those Schools. And Illusion is a completely different thing altogether."

"So you are saying the energy you use to fuel your magic does not come from your body?" Carn questioned, flabbergasted.

"Of course not. I am like…a bridge, I suppose, between Aetherius, which is where it flows from, and here. Think of it like water. It goes from the source to the target through a pipe, taking different forms as it goes. I am the pipe – I can reshape the magic into what I want. I'm not the source, just the conduit."

"That- that is unbelievable! You can do limitless magic without getting tired, then? "

"No, it is limited by how much I can conduct – how wide the pipe is, metaphorically speaking. Different people have different capacities, but it's related mostly to how much you practice and blood propensity. Elves, for instance, usually have a much bigger magic inclination. But no, magic does not tire me physically."

Carn looked positively astounded, as if he had just discovered the wheel. Roran just eyed them looking lost.

"So you do magic in a way that does not get you tired", Roran spoke slowly, still trying to understand what that meant. "Can you teach that to Carn?"

_Ever so pragmatic_, Dovahkiin mused.

"I am not sure," he said, scratching his stubble as he did when pensive, then to Carn, he said, "You seem to mix your magic and your stamina. I don't understand why you would do that – not only it stops the bridge between you and Aetherius from getting wider, it might also get you killed when trying to cast a spell."

It was the constant draining that made one's magicka pool grow bigger. If, once the magical energy ran out, the caster simply supplied the spell with their life energy, they wouldn't try to pull more from Aetherius, and thus, the connection wouldn't get any stronger.

"I don't know any other day to do it", Carn replied, slightly exasperated. "I don't even know what this Aetherius you speak of is!"

The gods are absent here, Dovahkiin realized, a little horrified. He had heard of neither Aedra nor Daedra since arriving in Alagaesia, and it was a disturbing thought. They were still there, he knew – Nocturnal still answered his prayers, his daedric artifacts still worked, his magick flowed normally, Vaermina still took every chance to make him wake up screaming. It was as if they were just…uninterested. As if they didn't care enough about Alagaesia to make an appearance.

"Aetherius is the realm of the Aedra, the gods of creation", he explained. "Here, if you want more magic energy, you'll have to do more than just separating the stamina pool from the magick one. You'll need to connect better to the Aether itself."

He had an idea then, a dangerous one to say the least, but one that, if it worked, would bring them great advantage in battle. He eyed Carn again and could not help but find his shape meager. When it came down to magic, however, that was not what mattered. It wasn't about strength, it was about will, and Carn seemed determined enough to be worthy of his offer. He turned to Roran.

"Do you trust him? Is he honorable?" he asked.

"Hey! I am standing right here, you know!" Carn protested

"With my life", Roran replied. "None could be braver."

_Ask a man you just met about another man you just met_, Dovahkiin reflected. But both Roran and Carn had seemed friendly and meritorious enough, reminding him of the Nords back home. Well, in the scrawny mage's case, maybe the Bretons. He turned to the huffed spellcaster.

"Let me show you", he said, and tapped his index finger on his forehead to make his intentions clear. Carn understood his meaning, and Dovahkiin felt a touch on his mind. He lowered his shields and let the presence in, then focused on what he wanted the mage to see.

The memories were as vivid as when it happened. He was on the top of a staircase, barely recovered from slaying Nahkriin. The magnitude of what he was about to do heaved on his shoulders as he raised the Priest's staff and placed it on the altar. The ground shattered as the portal to Sovngarde blew open, and every hair on his body stood on end. He jumped down the platform, drawn to the portal by some immensurable force, and gave one last look to the world around as he let himself drop.

Sensations took him over, washing away his fears and uncertainty. Energy flowed into him, much more than he had ever felt, and the Song rung so loudly he thought his head would explode. Every wound he had was suddenly gone, and beyond feeling alive, he felt ethereal. The intensity was such he almost felt his soul shatter.

He landed on fours, panting for air. His skin felt prickly where it touched the unnaturally warm stone ground, and the Song had changed to a constant, hypnotic humming. Slowly, he raised his head. Statues of cloaked men surrounded him, illuminated by the eerie light of torches that were unaffected by the chilling wind. He was on top of a staircase lavished by snow covered trees, and a long path led forward through rocky ground and carved stone to places hidden by mist.

Still on his knees, his eyes drifted up to the sky. Everything seemed to funnel into one single spot. Revolving around, he could identify the constellations among the purple, blue and pink clouds. And, on the center of all that, there was light. That was it- magic, in its purest, rawest form, illuminating evenly the heavens, casting auroras on the orbiting clouds. Dovahkiin couldn't even look at it for too long without beginning to dissipate into crude energy, feeling himself dragged into the infinite circling motion around that unraveling sun.

Carn gasped, pushing away from his mind. Dovahkiin cut the memory short and realized he was quivering – the experience had been so intense, it was impossible to revive it and stay reactionless. Carn, on the other hand, had a much stronger response. The man was trembling, breathing hard. His chest went up and down so fast, it looked like it might collapse. His pupils were so dilated, they would have filled most of his eyes, hadn't they been so wide.

Roran moved to his friend, steadying him. He turned furiously to Dovahkiin.

"What did you do to him?!"

He would have replied, if he wasn't too busy trying to collect himself.

"Roran, it's fine!" Carn spoke, his voice shaking. "It- it's more than fine. That was – it – I - I simply have no words for it. That light-!"

"I know", Dovahkiin finally gasped, "I was there, remember?"

"Where is _there_? What is that place?" he finally seemed to control his breathing to a less concerning rhythm.

"That, dear mage, is Aetherius, or part of it, anyway. It's where magic comes from. I just thought maybe seeing it would help you understand."

"It does", the mage replied, his eyes glazed over. "It does", he repeated to himself.

Dovahkiin grinned. "You should have seen the Bone Bridge. Or the Hall of Valor."

The man would have replied, but a barking sound caught their attention. The three turned to see the soldiers had already reached the village. One of their foes threw a spear at the dog, killing it. Dovahkiin let out an involuntary growl. The trio hurried back and mounted their respective horses.

A squad of soldiers came out from one of the houses dragging a lanky old man, a young woman and a little boy. The mass of soldiers walked to the center of the village and formed a semicircle around the prisoners. Dovahkiin wished he had his bow. He hadn't the Bosmer "if-I-can-see-it-I-can-hit-it" accuracy but all the dragon-fighting had turned him into a decent archer, and at that distance, he probably wouldn't miss.

The man on horse, whom he assumed was the one in charge, dismounted his steed and exchanged a few words with the old villager. Without warning, the man drew his saber and decapitated the elder, making the woman scream. Dovahkiin ground his teeth in fury.

"Charge," said Edric, disturbingly calm.

"Charge!" Sand shouted

"Charge!" Roran repeated.

Dovahkiin spurred his horse and rode in behind Roran. Drawing Dawnbreaker, he veered to the left and rode around the buildings with the rest of the troops, attempting to flank the soldiers. Sand took the right side, while Edric met them head on. Concealed by a line of houses, he heard a chorus of shouts accompanied by metallic twangs of crossbows._ Damnation!_

Roran seemed to notice it as well, for as he pulled on his horse's reins and steered them towards the center of the village, he hesitated. Two hundred yards ahead, he could see the enemy line. The soldiers swept aside their cloaks and aimed their crossbows. _Shit!_ Dovahkiin urged his horse to the side, hiding behind a house.

"Take cover!" Roran shouted, before swerving behind a building himself. The force ducked behind nearby houses, all but one soldier who was too slow and ended up shot so much, he resembled a porcupine. His horse rocked, panicked, and cursing, Dovahkiin tried to calm it, but the animal refused to quiet.

"_Kaan!_"

The horse immediately stopped buckling, and resorted himself to shifting uneasily. As he felt his soul drain, Dovahkiin let out a stream of profanity at the fact that he'd spent his Thu'um on something so stupid in such a dire situation.

"What should we do, Stronghammer?" a group of warriors asked Roran. Stronghammer considered that carefully.

"Take your bows and climb onto the roof, as many of you as will fit, but if you value your lives, stay out of sight until I say otherwise. When I tell you to, start shooting and keep shooting until you run out of arrows or until every last soldier is dead. Understood?"

"Yes, sir!"

Dovahkiin cursed. He hadn't been given a bow, for when he arrived, the soldiers had already been properly equipped.

"Get going then. The rest of you, find buildings of your own where you can pick off the soldiers. Harald, spread the word to everyone else, and find ten of our best spearmen and ten of our best swordsman and bring them here as fast as you can."

"Yes, sir!"

Dovahkiin didn't know if he was among the ten best swordsman, but his lack of bow give him little option other than join Roran on the front assault. He presented himself to the man in charge.

"So you deem yourself one of my best swordsmen, eh?" Roran questioned upon his approach. Dovahkiin shrugged.

"I lack a bow, and I see no other way I can be of use."

"Well, you have the spirit." Roran relented, then turned to the men gathered around.

"Right, now listen. When I give the order, the men up there will start shooting. As soon as the first flight of arrows strikes the soldiers, we're going to ride out and attempt to rescue Captain Edric. If we can't, we'll have to settle for giving the red-tunics a taste of good cold steel. The archers should provide enough confusion for us to close with the soldiers before they can use their crossbows. Am I understood?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Then fire!" Roran shouted.

The men hidden on the housetops rose and, as one, fired their bows at the soldiers below. An instant later, the soldiers howled in pain.

"Now _ride!_", Roran commanded.

Together, they galloped around the side of the house and skirted the soldiers. Riding over the corpses in the ground, they met Edric and his remaining forces, engaged in hand-to-hand combat with the soldiers.

"Stay with me!" Roran shouted and raced into the battle.

Dovahkiin slashed and slashed, each of his strikes incapacitating the target when the wound ignited in Meridia's fire. He wanted to Shout, but amid the chaos, he couldn't do it without harming an ally. Roran fought ferociously, but even with their combined efforts, they were badly outnumbered. _We have to retreat!_

"To me!" Stronghammer shouted as he drew abreast Edric and the other survivors. "To me!" he repeated, as arrows continued to rain down on their foes, forcing them to cover themselves. Their group managed to surround the Varden who were on foot and Roran shouted, "Back! Back! To the houses!"

Slowly, step by step, they withdrew, fending off the enemy blades. The soldiers, however, knowing they held the advantage, gave chase. The archer's arrows kept slowing their foes down, but it wouldn't be enough and soon they would be caught. A group of soldiers split from the main force and ran to the side, attempting to flank them. _Damn it, Damn it!_

Dovahkiin forced his way to the front line, jumping off his horse, for the beast would probably panic again. He needed to buy them time, but he couldn't Shout without harming both sides, unless…

_"Zuun...Haal Viik!"_

Above all the noise in the field, his Voice rung with a loud, cutting metallic sound, and men gasped in surprise as their weapons were ripped from their hands by an invisible force. All around him, he saw flying swords, crossbows and weapons. One of the soldiers had his weapon thrown out of his hands and straight into the man behind him, killing him instantly.

Roran saw the opportunity and, taking advantage of the soldier's confusion, shepherded the Varden's soldiers behind the nearest house and into safety. Dovahkiin followed his example and raced to hide next to Edric and Stronghammer himself. Edric slumped to the side of the house, gasping for breath.

"Demons above and below," Roran gasped to him, "What was that?!"

"Dragon powers", Dovahkiin replied while catching his breath.

Roran frowned, giving him an odd look, then shook his head to focus.

"Can you do that again?"

"Not so soon, no, but I might be able to-"

"Your intervention is most timely and welcome, Stronghammer", Edric interrupted, making Dovahkiin scowl. "But why do I see you here, and not riding out from among the soldiers, as I expected?"

_Oh you've _got_ to be kidding me._

Roran explained what he had done, pointing out the archers on the roofs. It was a brilliant idea, and Dovhakiin realized Stronghammed did have a knack for strategies. He would make a great general. As Roran told his account, a dark scowl covered Edric's face. Dovahkiin thought he would chastise Stronghammer for his disobedience, but, instead, he just said,

"Have those men come down at once. They have succeeded in breaking the soldier's discipline. Now we must rely upon honest blade-work to dispose of them."

_Is he mad?!_

"There are too few of us left to attack the soldiers directly!" Roran said, trying to stuff some sense in the Captain's head. "They outnumber us better than three to one."

"Then we shall make up in valor what we lack in numbers!" Edric bellowed. _No, you imbecile, you make up in strategy what you lack in numbers. Even the most quarrelsome child knows better than that! _Dovahkiin knew very well the value of strategy- more often than not, he found himself outnumbered and outmatched, and if he was alive now, it was due to his cunning and wit.

"I was told you had courage, Stronghammer, but obviously rumor is mistaken and you are as timid as a frightened rabbit. Now do as you're told, and do not question me again!"

Dovahkiin saw red. The Nords were known as one of the bravest races, and even then, the most glorified generals were those who, despite the odds, won battles combining intelligence and bravery. Charging those men head on was neither -it was foolishness, and Captain Edric would be the death of them all.

Dovahkiin would gladly explain him that with a fist to the face, but before he could do anything, the man had already gone, taking half the forces to aid Sand. He noticed Roran shaking with fury.

"_Fuck _him", Dovahkiin said, losing all semblance of self-control, "He is but a rash child who knows not the difference between bravery and stupidity."

Roran growled. "I will demonstrate him the courage he thinks I lack, and I will start by being brave enough to disregard his imbecility." Then he turned to the group, among which, Dovahkiin was happy to see Carn, scratched and bloody but whole anyway.

"You have heard what Edric said. I disagree. If we do as he wishes, all of us will end up piled in a cairn before sunset. We can still win this battle, but not by marching to our own deaths! What we lack in numbers, we can make up with cunning."

_Finally! Someone with a drop of sense!_

" You know how I came to join the Varden. You know I have fought and defeated the Empire before, and in just such a village! This I can do, I swear to you. But I cannot do it alone. Will you follow me? Think carefully. I will claim responsibility for ignoring Edric's orders, but he and Nasuada may still punish everyone who was involved."

That was when Dovahkiin decided Roran was definitely a worthy man. That he was willing to go against a direct order showed that, unlike his cousin, he had not only smarts, but also a backbone. He had the heart of a Nord and that was what this world needed most – a rebellious streak, a willingness to do what was needed despite which oh-so-powerful "superior" it might offend.

"Then they would be fools", growled Carn. "Would they prefer that we died here? No, I think not. You may count on me, Roran."

And Roran was right about the mage, too. He had a great strength of will and Dovahkiin hoped he would succeed in fortifying the bridge to Aetherius and thus fortifying his own magic.

"I am with you, Roran. You have proven me your worth." Dovahkiin spoke.

"Aye", said a man, "You may count on us as well, Stronghammer."

"Then follow me!"

He pulled Carn up onto his horse and led them around the village, where bowmen on roofs continued to shoot the soldiers. As they rushed through the houses, bolts flew towards them, and twice, Dovahkiin had to duck to avoid getting hit. Roran had the man on horses give their bows to those on foot, who proceeded to join the others on the rooftops. Then he beckoned to him and Carn. To the spellcaster, he said,

"I need a spell of you. Can you shield me and ten others from these bolts?"

Carn hesitated. "For how long?"

"A minute? An hour? Who knows?"

"Shielding that many people from more than a handful of bolts would soon exceed the bounds of my strength… Although, if you don't care if I stop the bolts in their tracks, I could deflect them from you, which -"

"That would be fine."

"Remember Aetherius", Dovahkiin added. "The magic is infinite. Force the bridge. Pull harder. You have the will to make the walls blocking you succumb."

Carn nodded uneasily. Roran turned to Dovahkiin.

"Can you rip the weapons from the soldier's hands again?"

He considered that for a moment. The more complex the idea behind the shout was, the harder it was to do, though not necessarily more draining. He went through his shouts repertory. He could use Storm Call, but not only it would kill anything in a mile radius, it would also let him out of Thu'um for some good three hours.

He could summon Durnehviir, but that would create a commotion, raise a multitude of unnecessary questions, leave him out of shouts for almost two hours and get him into deep trouble with Odahviing.

The red dragon was very…jealous. There was no other word for it. When he had found out Dovahkiin had another winged companion, he had been more than a little mad. He had proceeded to summon the undead Dovah himself and, to Dovahkiin's despair and Paarthurnax's amusement, engage in a fight over who exactly was the Dragonborn's "Right wing dragon".

It had been a real ugly fight. Durnehviir was powerful, but Odahviing had a millennia's worth of experience fending off dragons who wanted to take his place as Alduin's second. Besides, he had the advantage of knowing well the fighting grounds. Durnehviir ended up bested, securing Odahviing's position, which basically meant if a dragon was to fight next to him, it would be the Winged Snow Hunter.

He could not summon Odahviing because he didn't know whether it would work and even if it did, he feared the dragon might get stuck in Alagaesia. And he could not summon Durnehviir because Odahviing would eventually find out he called another dragon to aid and then he'd be _enraged_.

And then there were some shouts he'd just rather not do, for instance, Soul Tear, Marked for Death, Drain Vitality or Dismay. Those were more than a bit disturbing and would usually leave him feeling a little sick. Then he remembered something and couldn't help but crack a smile.

"I have a better idea", he finally said. "Just get everyone out of my way."

Roran scrutinized him for a second, then nodded and ordered Carn to put the wards in place. The mage began to mutter the same odd language Dovahkiin finally recognized as some sort of ancient Merish. He managed to catch a few words, such as "Shield" and "Men". _I knew_ _studying Ehlnofex would come in handy eventually! _Carn seemed unfocused, however, and thrice he failed in placing the wards. He began to look dangerously strained.

"I'm sorry", the spellcaster said, "I can't seem to concentrate."

"Blast it, don't apologize", growled Roran. "Just do it!"

"I can do my own shielding", Dovahkiin added, readying a Greater Ward spell on his left hand.

Roran jumped off his horse and grasped Carn on either side of his head, holding him in place. "Look at me! Look into the center of my eyes. That's it. Keep staring at me… Good. Now place the ward around us."

Carn relaxed a little, and in a confident voice, spoke the incantation. "It is done", he said. Roran patted him on the shoulder, then, hopping back on his horse, commanded his men. "Guard my sides and my back, but otherwise keep behind me so as long as I am able to swing my hammer."

"Yes, sir!"

"Remember, the bolts cannot harm you now. Carn, you stay here. Don't move too much; conserve your strength. If you feel like you can't maintain the spell any longer, signal us before you end it. Agreed? "

Carn sat on the front step of the house and nodded. "Agreed."

"Remember Aetherius", Dovahkiin repeated, and the mage nodded again.

Roran took a deep breath. "Brace yourselves," he said to the men. Dovahkiin cast his ward, making the air shimmer around him. With his other hand, he held his sword. Roran rode out into the middle of the dirt street and faced the soldiers once more, followed by the troops. Dovahkiin saw there were approximately five hundred enemy soldiers.

Glancing around, Roran spotted a wagon leaning against a house and ordered his men to move it. Barking out orders, he organized the troops and managed to block part of the street, making a funnel their foes would have to go through.

Roran shouted out taunts towards the soldiers, and, with a flurry of battle-cries, they charged, dropping their crossbows and pulling out their blades. Roran turned to him. "If you are going to do your thing, do it now."

Dovahkiin nodded and placed himself where the soldiers would meet them. He heard a man from behind him say, "Sir, there are many more of them than us"

"Aye", Roran said. Dovahkiin kept his eyes fixed on the approaching soldiers. Already, his soul began to itch as the words took shape.

"If they all charge us at once, we won't stand a chance."

Dovahkiin was beginning to feel uncomfortably warm.

"Yes, but they won't. Look, they're confused and disorganized. Their commander must have fallen. As long as we maintain order, they cannot overwhelm us."

_It is change given form. Power at its most primal._

"But, Stronghammer, we cannot kill that many men ourselves!"

_But power is inert without action and choice._

"We have something they don't",Dovahkiin interrupted with a low growl.

_What will you spare?_

"And what is it?" the soldier challenged.

_What will you burn?_

"A dragon", he snarled ferociously. He couldn't hold back any longer. The soldiers finally reached them. A man rose his sword, screaming, and he let out his fury through the worlds that had been scorching him inside.

"_Yol… Toor SHUL!_"

His Thu'um cut through the air in an explosive roar. Blinding bright yellow flames engulfed the battlefield with a heat that would rival the sun, and the power was such, his fire could be seen for miles, lighting up the land and the skies like a beacon. He heard the desperate screaming of the dying men._ They burned and they bled, as they issued their cries._

Dovahkiin dragged out the _Shul_, as he had seen dragons do, thus making the shout last as long as possible. He extended it the best he could, until he was out of breath, and then he was done, and all around him, there was silence.

The stink of burnt flesh assaulted his nose and smoke rose from the ground. The front line of soldiers had been torched into unrecognizable charred corpses. Behind them, the second and third lines were also completely wiped out. Over all, he must have killed around a hundred men with his Thu'um. Without turning back, he said,

"I hope I lived up to your expectations, Stronghammer."

His voice seemed to snap the soldiers out of their stasis, for ten men let out furious yells and raced forward. As they ran, however, the residual heat of his shout was enough to melt their armor on their bodies, killing them instantly. Their bodies smoked as they fell on the steaming ground, deforming their features.

Though being cured of lycanthropy, Dovahkiin knew some things would forever remain changed. He would always like his meat a little bit rarer than normal. The moons would always make him feel wistful. And his wolfish grin would never get less…unsettling.

He flashed the soldiers his best lupine smile, slowly trailing his tongue over his lips as if before a particularly tasty meal. That was too much for some of the men, who dropped their weapons, turned back and fled, screaming.

For a good ten minutes, they waited. The soldiers could have shot, but neither side dared to make a move, until a young enemy warrior took his crossbow, but, instead of aiming at the rebels, shot the ground. The bolt buried on earth, but asides from a low hiss, didn't melt. The soldier took a tentative step forward, then another. Dovahkiin drew his sword. Then, as if on signal, both sides screamed their battle cries and ran forward.

The forces clashed bloodily in the center, the Varden keeping mostly behind the wagon, where fewer enemies could get to them at the same time. Roran fought ferociously, swinging his hammer with one hand and a spear with the other, wielding both with deadly speed and precision. Dovahkiin slashed with Dawnbreaker while using the other hand to cast shielding and healing spells.

They fought on and it wasn't long before he felt he could use his Thu'um again. Since the forces had already clashed, using a massively destructive Shout would be unwise, so he opted for something more restrained, though not any less deadly.

_"Su Graah Dun!"_

He felt his limbs get lighter as wind itself imbued his strikes. On his hands, Dawnbreaker felt weightless, and he moved with renewed grace. Dawnbreaker seemed satisfied with the battle, happily drinking their foe's blood and setting their wounds on fire. Two soldiers approached him from each side, but he was too fast for them - dodging back, he swiped one of them off his feet, making him fall straight into the other's blade.

He acquired many wounds throughout the battle, but his reliable, virtually indestructible armor combined with his constant healing were enough to keep him on his feet and fighting. Twice, he ran out of magicka, and had to be extra careful with his defenses. Every once in a while, his path would cross Roran's and he would aid the man with a quick casting of Healing Hands.

He began seeing gaps between the soldier's forces, and soon, he could see their enemies were at an end. Elimiating the last men around him, he turned to see Roran engaged in battle with two soldiers. While he raced to his companion's side, Stronghammer used his weapon to cave in one of his foe's helmet. One last soldier stood, and as Dovahkiin ran him through with his sword, Roran simultaneously placed a perfect blow to the enemy's neck, ending his life immediately.

Roran swayed and then collapsed. Dovahkiin managed to catch him midair and they were approached by a man who helped them up and offered them wine.

"Drink this", the man said, "You'll feel better."

Roran consumed several draughts between gasps, then, passing Dovahkiin the wineskin, he said, "It's allright; you can let go of me now."

Leaning on his hammer, Roran examined the battlefield. He spoke some words to the man who had offered him wine, but Dovahkiin wasn't listening. He stumbled forward and took a seat on the porch of one of the houses. Sheathing his sword, he closed his eyes and f focused hard, simultaneously charging two healing spells. When they had run their courses, he just stood there, catching his breath, chest heaving.

When he came to himself, he saw Carn leaning against his knees and shaking, next to a half-healed Roran. "I will go…" the mage paused for breath. "…go help the rest of the wounded now."

"I'll go with you", Dovhakiin volunteered, standing. Carn shot him a grateful look and they met a little ahead of the road, where the wounded were being gathered. Carn was visibly lurching, and Dovahkiin offered him his shoulder.

"Did you take my advice?", he asked as they limped together towards a man who had a serious bleeding.

"I did. What I saw, what you showed me – with every spell I cast, I pull a bit harder, and I can feel my magic pool get deeper. I never thought this possible. Hadn't you done what you did, I would certainly be dead out of exhaustion now."

He acquiesced the mage's thanks with a sharp nod as he healed the wounded man. Carn watched raptly.

"I will never understand how you do this", the mage said a while later, as they worked on a group of rebels who had been shot by bolts.

"I beg your pardon?"

"How can you heal when you do not know what you are healing?", he grunted when he was done with an incantation.

"I don't need to. The body itself knows how it should be - all I do is command it to mend, then fuel it with life energy." Dovahkiin explained, then sighed at Carn's confused look.

"I'm not creating anything, just reinstating it to health. That's why we call it Restoration and not, say, guts-making. Because you _restore_ the body to its former state of health, see?" he said, and to prove his point, imbued one of the wounded with healing hands, making the bolt wounds close as if on their own free will.

Carn shook his head. "I get the idea, but to do it… you will have to teach me later."

Dovahkiin nodded again. They worked together for several hours, healing and stitching skin. Then they aided the men in carrying the bodies and building a pyre in the center of the village, where the corpses were cremated.

He met up with Roran at the back of the troops, surprised to find him stripped off his weapons.

"Edric has you grounded again?", Dovahkiin jested.

Roran scowled. "He relieved me of my command and had me behave as a prisoner. I will probably be punished when we get back."

Dovahkiin snorted. "Nasuada would be a fool to punish you. Speaking of which, I bet I gave you quite a lot of interesting things to report, eh?"

Roran turned to him, a smile on his lips. "You weren't joking, were you? That was amazing. You could show me that trick sometime."

"I could, but..." he trailed off, thoughtful._ Why not?_

"But?" Roran said eagerly

"Another word suits you more."

Roran shot him a lost look. In a split second decision, Dovahkiin pulled out the note from Nasuada from his pocket. Drawing his carving knife, he slit his hands, just deep enough to draw blood. Wetting the tip of the knife with blood, he flipped the note and, on the blank side of the parchment, drew a series of sharp scratches and dots. He handed Roran the paper and, locking eyes with him bearing a serious expression, called back his master's words.

"It is called _Force_ in your tongue. But as you push the world, so does the world push you back. Think of the way force may be applied effortlessly. Imagine but a whisper pushing aside all in its path. That is_Fus. _Let its meaning fill you. _Su'um_ _ahrk_ _morah_. Breath and focus."

He gazed deep into Roran's eyes, grasping his soul.

"You will push the world harder than it pushes back. _Fus._"

He released Roran then, letting his grip on the man's soul slip, then spurred his horse forward. As he bolted ahead, he was able to catch Roran whispering it under his breath, repeating it over and over again._Fus. Fus. Fus._

* * *

_**And there you go. Ridiculously long chapter and all. **_

_**I'll be gone for a while because I'll travel soon and while I might be able to squeeze a chapter between now and then, don't expect much until mid- January. Besides, my computer broke, so I have to borrow my dad's, which drastically reduces my writing time. Plus the whole "someone else's keyboard" thing drives me utterly insane. **_

_**That much said, I think I'll try something a little different next chapter so prepare your rotten tomatos.**_

_**Thanks everyone who reviewed, favorited and followed ! And special thanks to ShadowedFang, who beta-ed it!**_

_**And thanks everyone for reading!**_


	10. Chapter 9

_Focus._

Her quill flew at incredible speed, scratching the parchment in a constant rhythm. She had to get that report done by midnight. She would then proceed to magically send it to the borders of Ellesméra, where a messenger would retrieve it and take it to whomever. She had argued about the need of that, because since the queen was no longer in the capital, they could just scry each other. But her mother had insisted in formal notes.

She sighed, realizing she had drifted off again. At that rate, she would never get it done. Truth be told, she was bored out of her mind – how long had it been since she had some real fun? Everything seemed just so dull since – since –

_Stop it._

She fought back the choking feeling that threatened to overwhelm her, because there was no time for that, because she was needed, and in her best state, to win the damn war that had taken so much for her. It had been almost a year since that dire night, the night when everything changed.

A year since her capture, a year since the death of her companions. A year since _his_ death. Much had happened then – that single year was probably more eventful than the last twenty, and it felt like a whole century. But it was still just a year, and what was time to an elf anyway? It was nothing. It felt like yesterday.

Arya was grieving.

She shouldn't. She should be past it, she should shove it down her throat and move on. But she couldn't really help it. Everywhere she looked, she would remember _him_. She found her eyes drifting to the shelf, where three books laid, organized alphabetically. The middle one had the spine facing inwards, hiding the title.

_She clung to the little things, because the big ones threatened to swallow her. She didn't have many belongings – she was a traveler after all – but among them were three books, her childhood favorites, the ones her father would read her before bed. She kept them neatly organized, alphabetically, spine out, in her bag. She liked her things like that- orderly._

_ Faölin knew that. He knew that very well. _

The report. Realizing her ink had dried, he dipped her quill in the inkwell and begun writing again. For almost a page, she discoursed about the Varden's supplies. She had to admit Eragon was right about that- it was so ridiculously, absurdly monotonous.

_Every morning she would wake up to find he had flipped the first book, so that the spine would face inward. She knew he did it just to spite her. Every morning, she would flip the book back to the right position. One day, she snapped._

Two hundred sheep had arrived from Surda, and the heck did she care about that? The heck did her mother, or all the elves, for that matter, care about that? That was Nasuada's problem, not theirs.

_She went furiously out of her tent and after him. She found him happily chatting under a tree with Glenwing. She pulled him up abruptly, making him face her._

_"Stop it." She snarled._

_"I beg your pardon?" he asked innocently, but she could see on his eyes he knew exactly what was it about._

_"The book. The book!" She grasped his shoulders. "THE BOOK! Stop flipping the book! STOP FLIPPING THE DAMN BOOK!"_

_She noticed she had been yelling - and shaking him. He stared at her with wide eyes, while Glenwing tried and failed to suppress a look of amusement. She realized she seemed a little insane._

_"It's asymmetrical", she mumbled under her breath, an explanation, more to herself than to them, before turning away._

She shook her head to clear it and saw she had finished the inventory report. She moved on to Nasuada's state of health. Her mother had been furious, and rightfully so, after the woman had endangered herself by taking the Trial of Long Knives. She had raged hours on end on how humans were barbaric little creatures.

_She avoided him the rest of the day – quite a feat, considering it was only the three of them in the middle of nothing. Glenwing helped. He was used to it – to their constant bickering._

Arya admired the Varden leader for her bravery and boldness, even if it was reckless of her. On the other hand, humans _were_ barbaric little creatures. Nasuada's health had been improving, mostly due to Angela the Herbalist's careful tending. She put that on the paper, making sure to sound very reassuring. When her mother found out magical healing was also out ruled by the Trial, she'd raged twice as hard.

_She woke up the next morning and went straight to her bag. She opened it, half expecting her books to be in the proper place this time, and she couldn't help but smile at what she saw._

She reached out for another piece of parchment, the fifth already, and she wasn't even halfway through. She still had to go through the whole political affair, Nasuada's dealings with Orrin and her generals, how where the relationships holding, and of course, reports on the Dragon Hunter – her mother wanted to know virtually everything. She sighed.

_Two of her books were spine out. He had flipped a book, of course he had. Knowing him, it was naïve of her to think he would just drop it – if anything, her complaints would probably make him do it twice a day. _

She realized she'd been staring blankly at the paper, quill in hand, and ink was starting to drip from it to the parchment, blurring part of her words. She muttered a spell to clear the mess and mentally scolded herself_. _

_But he had flipped the middle book this time._

Inadvertently her eyes went back to the shelf. Three books, the middle one facing the wrong way. The middleone_._

_It was symmetrical._

Dropping the quill, she paced her face on her hands and held back tears. It was hard to be alone in her tent, because she had no need to keep stoic - or rather, no excuse. She couldn't force herself to remain so apathetic when no one was looking, so she usually fell in a desperate sorrow – for them, for _him_, for herself.

_Focus_. She had to focus on the war. There was no time for grief, no time for being sad. She had to be the efficient battle machine they expected her to be. She had scolded Eragon for his own lack of focus, even though it made her feel hypocritical.

_She'd always had trouble focusing, and Oromis had suggested fairth-making to improve her all too short attention span. She took the habit with her when traveling._

_She concentrated hard. She had gone for a swim that day, and while she was underwater, a school of fish had swum right in front of her eyes. It was something silly, maybe, but something she wanted to keep. _

_She spoke the words and let the images flow through her mind. The way the water bent light, the pretty stones on the bottom of the lake, and the fish. She gave special attention to the fish, their flexible tails, the way their scales caught the sun, their faces –_

_"Queen Islanzadí." What -?!_

_She turned to see Faölin, a huge grin crossing his features._

_"What about her?"_

_"Nothing," he replied, his grin getting even wider. She shot him an odd look and turned to see the results of her faith –_

_Ah, shit. _

_She scowled, and heard him burst out laughing behind her._

_"Very funny, Faölin", she chided._

_It was all there – the little stones, the water, the fish, their scales perfect. The scene was exactly how she wanted it, except for when Faölin had interrupted her, and the little imp must have timed it perfectly, too, because now every fish had her mother's face glued to it. A hundred little Islanzadís, each one with a different face expression – smiling mother-fish, angry mother-fish, surprised mother-fish. It was creepy in a very disturbing way._

_Glenwing rushed into the tent. "What -" then his eyes darted to the picture and he too was into incontrollable laughter._

_She eyed the picture again. One particular fish had caught her eye for swimming away from the school and in her direction. That fish was there, except it had the queen's features, distorted in a duck face pose. The eyes were wide, and from her pressed together lips emerged a little bubble. _

_She couldn't help it. She joined them in laughter, too._

She was brought out of her affliction by approaching footsteps – probably someone passing nearby, but she immediately rebuilt her indifferent façade, just in case said someone was there to pay her a visit. She chided herself again for not doing what she should be doing – the report.

The footsteps halted in front of her tent. She finished her description of Nasuada's wounds and was about to begin addressing the next topic – the troublesome stranger who had arrived a few weeks ago. That was when said topic put his head through the flaps.

"Hail, Fahliil!" he greeted merrily.

Arya inwardly groaned._ And there goes my report_. He didn't wait to be invited in – she probably wouldn't, anyway. He casually strolled inside, tripping on the chest on the way in, and settled himself in her bed, sitting laggardly.

"Ysmir.", she addressed him coldly with the title, whatever it meant, knowing it would upset him.

"Yes, princess?"

She wasn't expecting that. He knew many things he shouldn't, but that, her heritage, was something personal he had no business with, and the only way he could possibly know that was through someone else. She turned to him with ire.

"Who told you that?" she hissed venomously.

He frowned, looking genuinely confused.

"Told me wha- Oh. Oh! " he smiled in that irritating way of his. "You just did."

He'd been just teasing, she realized with distress. He hadn't actually known anything. He did now, of course – Arya resisted the urge to slam her head in her desk in frustration.

"Colin", she said in a strained tone, "What do you want? I am doing something important."

"You are _always _doing something important. Though now I know why,_ Fahliil-Kulaas_"

She had never bothered to ask what exactly did _Fahliil _mean, but she guessed the new term, _Kulaas_, must have something to do with her position. She considered asking him, but he never gave her a straight answer.

"Do you need me to read something for you again?" she guessed.

Usually, she'd be irritated if someone assigned her to such menial things, but it was different with him. She knew he didn't come to her for the task itself – many other people in the Varden knew how to read. No, he came to her just _because._

He shook his head.

"No, I am free today. I just got back from a mission and Nasuada won't hear our reports until tomorrow." He paused, as if considering something. "And when she does hear the reports, I doubt she'll send me anywhere anytime soon."

_Now what in the Menoa's thorny root did he do?_ Then she remembered that whatever he did, it would have to go on her report. _ Never mind. I do not want to know. _ "What brings you here then?"

"I am free today", he said again.

"Colin", she repeated in an almost begging tone, "I am busy."

"Pity for you, because I am not."

She intensified her grip on the quill. _Just ignore him. Maybe he will leave. _She continued writing, letting her irritation out on the paper. Her carefully drawn calligraphy began to look a little sloppy. -_…has proven his worth as an asset.-_

"What are you doing?" he asked curiously

She didn't reply, intent on pretending he was not there. She kept working on her report. - _…generally uncooperative to direct contact.-_

"What are you writing about?" he insisted.

_-…but in general the asset should be considered dormant.-_

He got up and she hoped he would leave, but of course, she wasn't that lucky. He began to pace around the room.

_-…current indecisive fashion.-_

She heard a clinking noise, but ignored it.

_-…should not assume…- _

A loud snapping made her turn in time to see him, standing in front of her chest. Her open chest. She was positive she had left that locked. He gave her a sheepish smile. She gritted her teeth.

_-…goals align with our own.-_

He was on the other side of the room now, eyeing her belongings carefully. He was not touching anything, however. That was good. She did not like when other people messed with her things.

_-...must be carefully managed.- _she concluded, closing the topic. There really wasn't much to say about Colin, for he had already been addressed on her previous reports and he hadn't done anything else worth mentioning since then. Or at least, not anything she knew of; she had no news of his last mission after all.

He picked up Glenwing's lute. Arya's face twitched in annoyance.

Upon arriving in Ellesméra, she had met with her friend's family to give them the news. It was unusual for elves to weep, especially in public, but she had caught a few tears on his mother's eyes as she handed Arya the lute. _"It was his favorite instrument", _the woman had said.

Arya didn't quite have the heart to leave it behind when she returned from the elven city. She didn't know how to play it, either, so it was mostly a dead weight, but one she did not mind carrying. Like the books, whose new copies she had immediately acquired in Ellesméra to make up for the lost ones. They reminded her of her father. And of course, they reminded her of Faölin.

He sat on her bed again, lute in hands, and played each string carefully, as if checking the tuning. _Don't tell me he can play it_, she thought incredulously. He stroked all the strings together, creating a perfect reverberating sound. He seemed satisfied - elven lutes, she knew, never went out of tune.

He cleared his throat and started playing. To an elf's ear, a human's song would usually sound like a terrible cacophony, and this one was no different. She noticed his voice was quite peculiar – low and deep, but with a raspy ring to it. As if he shouted a lot. Curiosity got the best of her and she eagerly listened, hoping to learn more about his world's culture.

"Alduin's wings, they did darken the sky; his roar fury's fire, and his scales sharpened schytes,"

From "wings", "roar" and "scales", she thought it safe to assume Alduin was a dragon. She noted with interest that it was regarded with fear, but also with admiration, which was unusual for humans, at least in Alagaesia – when they heard the word "dragon", all they imagined were fire breathing beasts.

"Men ran and they cowered, and they fought and they died; they burned and they bled, as they issued their cries,"

His voice had a sad tone that made her glance. Colin's face was completely unreadable, but his eyes held a troubled look to them, and Arya realized this was more than simply a song to him - he was trying to send her a message. She redoubled her attention on the lyrics.

"We need saviors to free us, from Alduin's rage; Heroes on the field, of this new war to wage,"

A war. Not a hunt, or a battle, but a war. It wasn't just a furious dragon on the top of a mountain that would eventually go down and burn a village. It sounded more like a dragon version of Galbatorix, and there was a certain resignation on the song that made Alduin seem distinctively evil – again, they did not need a warrior or a noble, but saviors.

"And if Alduin wins, man is gone from this world; Lost in the shadow, of the black wings unfurled,"

That verse particularly struck a nerve, probably because now she knew Alduin was a black dragon – like Shruikan. And the idea of an entire race being wiped out by a black dragon was one just too familiar for her liking. He paused for a moment, letting the words sink in.

"But then came the Tongues, on that terrible day; Steadfast as winter, they entered the fray,"

He had mentioned something about the Tongues before, hadn't he? Oh, yes, he had said only dragons and Tongues were allowed to call him "Dovahkiin".

"And all heard the music, of Alduin's doom; Sweet song of Skyrim, sky-shattering Thu'um; And so the Tongues freed us, from Alduin's rage; Gave the gift of the Voice, ushered in a new Age,"

So the Tongues were the ones who, through some sort of power, defeated Alduin, bringing a new age to their land. She thought the song was over then, but there was another verse.

"If Alduin's eternal, then eternity's done; For this story is over and the dragons are gone."

He struck the last note and the room fell into silence. She was still facing her parchment, the ink on the quill long dry. She put it down, realizing there was no way she would be able to finish her report with him on her room.

"Who is Alduin?" she asked finally, unable to hold her curiosity any longer.

"_Al -du- in_, _feyn do jun,_" he whispered so low, she barely heard.

The way he said the name sent a chill through her body, as if it was not a word, but three separate ones, and the other words he uttered after seemed to complete the name's ominous feeling. He cleared his throat and spoke again, louder this time.

"Alduin World-Eater is a dragon god – the Nordic god of destruction" he explained.

_It always comes down to gods and religion_, she thought bitterly. It was a beautiful song lyric-wise, but in the end, it was all just a myth. Still, he carried a haunted look she could recognize well, the look of someone who had seen too much.

She might not believe in gods, but she knew he had gone through something very traumatic. It was possible, for instance, that he had seen a black dragon and thought it was Alduin – dragons were certainly scary enough even without being gods. She decided to save him the lecture – for now. She still had questions.

"And the Tongues?" she questioned.

"The Tongues are the masters of the Thu'um, the Voice. It's – well, I guess you would call it the dragon version of magic."

"The Thu'um", she repeated, the world rolling weirdly on her tongue. "Is that what you used to get Thorn to the ground?"

"Aye, but that was Dragonrend. It's different. Dragonrend is very…unholy"

She just nodded, deciding not to push it. The gods may not exist, but the power was definitively real, and pressing him might make him begin to speak in riddles again. Instead, she asked another question.

"So these people, the Tongues, they killed the god of destruction and saved the world?" she asked, putting what she understood of the story in a nutshell.

"Oh no – no, they – just no. Alduin was a dragon. You can't – well, at least in my world, one does not simply kill a dragon."

She rolled the quill back and forth under her finger. Picking up a new piece of parchment, she dipped it in ink and began to doodle.

"Explain", she demanded. She heard him sigh.

"Dragons are direct children of Akatosh, the god of time. They are immortal." he said. _Again with the religion, _she thought, but was more curious than irritated this time.

"You can't kill one, not really. You run a sword through their hearts, they fall down and die, except they aren't really dead. Should another dragon Shout over him and command him to rise, they do."

She wasn't sure if he was mixing a religious idea with actual facts. _Do not attempt to raise the dead_ was magic rule number one. But she was beginning to accept things might work differently in other worlds. Not gods – it would take much for her to believe in that, but different ways of magic, such as what had affected Trianna. And it was much easier when dragons were involved.

Eragon had told her, for instance, that Saphira had turned Brom's tomb into pure diamond. The energy required to do that could not possibly have come from the dragon herself, or she would surely be dead. Dragons did things like that – unexplainable. Raising the dead was unheard of, but so were living, reproducing golden flowers, and spirits had created that right under her nose.

And maybe they didn't really die, only went into some kind of stasis, and then another would cast healing magic upon it, closing the wounds and breaking the coma. There were a great number of possible, logical explanations.

"They are unstoppable, then? Should they attack in pairs, one could just rise the other if he falls." she said skeptically.

"Not every dragon can raise another – only the most powerful ones hold that ability. Alduin could, of course, and I reckon Paarthurnax probably can, too. Odahviing couldn't, not back then, but now he might – I'll have to ask him later. I know the words myself, but I dare not use them, nor do I have any reason to."

She didn't get half of what he was taking about, as usual. He seemed to talk about the dragons in the past and in the present, as if they were gone and then back. She understood what mattered, though – not every dragon could bring others back to life, only a select few, such as Alduin, the so-called god.

"So that's why Alduin had to die", she commented, "So that the others could stay dead."

But there was a fundamental flaw in that plan, and she almost smacked herself when she noticed it. It was so obvious.

"But Alduin was a dragon, too. So he couldn't be killed either. He dies, some other raises him, and we're back to the start."

She was beginning to understand how bad the situation was. If what he said was true – and she had no reason to think he was lying, then a war against Alduin and the other dragons was completely hopeless. It wouldn't be like Du Fyrn Skulblaka, where dragons and elves mutually annihilated each other. In fact, calling it a "war" was already a sick joke. "Massacre" would be a better word.

He chuckled, as if he had found her words funny.

"Theoretically, yes. But no other dragon would possibly want to raise Alduin. Why would they, if they can have the power to themselves?" he stopped for a moment, "There is one way to kill a dragon for good – after slaying it, one should take its soul. Except only a dragon soul can claim another."

She remembered his words to her and Nasuada, and everything fell into place.

"And that's where you come in", she blurted. "You said you are a mortal with the soul of a dragon. _You_ can kill them. You claim their souls."

For a long while, he said nothing, and she realized he must have drifted off. He did that a lot, lose himself in his thoughts. She couldn't hold it against him – it was a habit of hers as well.

"Hmmm.." he muttered after a while, "But I wasn't alive then, yes?"

"Weren't there any others… like you?"

His sharp intake of breath made her turn to face him. His jaw was clenched in a determined manner, but his expression was still unreadable.

"No. There wouldn't be any of us until Alessia, in the first era. That was… well, time did not work very linearly in the beginning of Nirn, but it was at least millennia after the Dragon War that Akatosh bestowed the dragon soul and blood on a mortal."

"That's an efficient god you have there", she commented pointedly. She expected the comment to anger him, but he just sighed dejectedly.

"He had a very good reason not to. There was…an issue."

She raised an eyebrow at him.

"An issue?"

He shook his head slowly. "The _Dovah Sil_… corrupts. Not everyone can -" he stopped. "The First was -" he stopped again. She could tell the subject disturbed him greatly. "I don't want to talk about it.", he said finally.

Again, she decided it would be no use to prod.

"And how did they defeat Alduin, then? "

"They used a _Kel_, an Elder Scroll. The Scrolls are… fragments of creation. They exist outside of time, and tell both the past and the future. The Scrolls and their heroes exist interdependently, and their prophecies are always true. They hold destiny."

She could almost hear Blagden and his shrill calls. _Wyrda!_

"It was prophesized that he would return and face The Last Dragonborn in battle to take his proper role as World- Eater. If not stopped, he would devour Nirn as he had before, heralding the end of the world and the beginning of another."

"He is not evil then," she commented, "He is an agent of renewing. He destroys old things so that new ones might come to be."

The comment seemed to ruffle him.

"Unless the _old things_ so happen to be your entire world, aye? You may not like everything about it, but I believe you wouldn't want it to burn to the ground, either."

She had to admit he was right about that. She nodded, conceding him the point.

"So the scroll did what, cage him until it was time for the world to end?"

"It sent Alduin some four thousand years to the future."

His tale only grew weirder and weirder, and she had to constantly remind herself that it all happened in another place, with other rules. Bending time did not seem possible to her, not in her world, but in his it could be. Maybe.

"Only delaying the unavoidable, then."

Then a thought crossed her mind. "And when did that happen?" Truly, what she meant was "_How long do you have left?" _

"Some four thousand years ago."

_Oh._ That explained a lot.

"And the Last Dragonborn?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.

"Here." He replied emotionlessly.

"And Alduin…?" she questioned once more, hesitatingly.

"It is done."

It was a rather ambiguous answer. Either it was done and Alduin was dead, or his world was gone. _Is that why he is here? _She wondered, but did not dare to ask. A much more interesting question popped in her head.

"Did you – well…" there was just no sensitive way to ask it. She decided she would have to be blunt. "Did you see Alduin? Did you actually meet a god?"

If Alduin was really a god, that is. This whole story seemed a bit too fantastic to her. He narrowed his eyes at her.

"I meet gods far more often than I'd like, _Fahliil-Kulaas. _I don't see why you are so excited about it. They are usually trouble." A crooked smile crossed his face.

"If you want to meet a god so badly, you should sleep with me. Vaermina visits almost every other night."

She ignored the obvious pick up line. "Vaermina?"

He made a dismissive gesture with his hands. "Prince of nightmares, dreams, psychological terror, evil omens and stealing memories. We had a little disagreement a while ago and now she takes her time to torment me whenever possible – which is usually whenever I am asleep and out of another et'Ada influence sphere. It is the actual reason why I like to sleep on temples."

She was getting lost, again. She always did when she talked to him; it was too much information and too little information at the same time. She decided maybe she should take the conversation to a more comfortable area, one that she was familiar with.

"There are no such things as gods", she said. "I did not need to anger anyone for nightmares to torment me."

"Of course not. Not every nightmare is Vaermina's work, like not every disease is Peryite's. "

She hadn't expected him to give in so easily. His belief was different from that of the dwarves, who seemed to believe their deities were in every raindrop, every stone. It was more…acceptable. Still, it did not prove them gods. He might just have gone against a very powerful magician.

"So how can you be sure your nightmares are caused by a god and not by your own mind?"

"There is no mistaking a Vaermina nightmare." He said simply. This kind of reply irritated her beyond measure; It was no reply at all.

"If the gods do exist, why do they not act upon our world directly, then? Appearing in a physical form, for example?"

"They do. Mostly the Daedra; the Aedra are more secluded, but I've met both. Anyone brave or stupid enough can attempt to summon a Prince. If the offerings and the day are right, they usually manifest. And sometimes, they come after you and it probably means you are in deep trouble."

Even in a comfortable subject, he managed to confuse her.

"So you are telling me there is more than one kind of god?"

"I guess…" he said carefully, "I guess you would call the Aedra 'gods' and the Daedra 'demons'. Though not every Aedra is nice – Alduin is one of them after all - and not every Daedra is evil either, well, at least, not completely. They all have this malicious little thing, you know? They are not like the Aedra who give blessings to anyone that prays near a shrine. There is always a catch when dealing with a Prince."

She didn't believe in gods and she didn't believe in demons either, and one of the reasons was that there was usually a very thin line between one and the other. They were usually all-powerful beings and what differed them was that the demons were 'evil'.

What most seemed to ignore, in special the dwarven priests, was that the ones considered gods weren't all that good, either. They demanded worship and sacrifice in return of allowing the beings who worshiped and sacrificed in their names to live, seemingly ignoring that if they didn't, there would be no one to do their biddings.

Beyond that, a god like Gûntera would watch a little child trip and fall from a precipice and do nothing at all. He would watch a young woman fall from her horse, break her neck and die without lifting one single omnipotent finger. He was evil by omission, because if he wasn't, then there would be no such accidents. That, or, of course, he simply didn't exist.

"How can you tell one from the other, then?" she asked, expecting some moralistic nonsense. His reply was surprisingly direct.

"Aedra are beings of creation and order, and their interference is limited. You receive their blessings through shrines, amulets and temples – your diseases are cured, your wounds mend, sometimes you gain some stamina or you feel stronger or barter better. That's about it, though. They don't talk to you directly, they don't come to Mundus and you probably won't see them. I did, but that's because I went to Aetherius."

He paused thoughtfully. Arya assumed Aetherius must be the realm of the gods, but she would ask him about it later. Right now, she was enjoying a religious explanation that was, for once, straight to the point.

"The last notable Aedra appearance was when Akatosh took over Martin Septim, two hundred years ago, and that was a really, really extreme situation. Mostly, when an Aedra wants you to do something, it'll ask for it in indirect ways. "

"Like passing on the message through a priest", she guessed disappointedly –it was the same thing with the dwarves and the "messages" were just the priest's inventions to get others to do their wishes.

"No, of course not. If they can talk to the priests, they can talk to you. By indirectly I mean… There was this one time I was at the temple of Dibella. I was trying to steal a statue –a man had offered me some good coin for it. I had picked the lock and pocketed the statue and was halfway out of there when a tankard suddenly materialized in the air right in front of me and fell down, alerting every single priestess in the temple. "

She ignored his casual thievery confession.

"So Dibella didn't want you to steal her statue?"

He eyed her oddly, as if she had asked something stupid.

"I was at a Temple of Dibella. There were sculptures of Dibella, paintings of Dibella and books about Dibella in every corner. Why would she care if I took the statue? That's just petty."

There was an undeniable logic in his words that caught her off guard. It was the sort of thing _she_ would say, when speaking against the gods.

"Wouldn't you would be taking something that was there to please her?"

"It is a Temple. The altar is there to please Dibella. All the rest is there to make it look nice - to please the priestesses and the visitors, not the goddess. She bestows her favors on someone for their deeds, not for the amount of statues. That would be ridiculous."

Again, that was exactly her point when in a gigantic dwarven temple. So whoever spends more gold on it gets more favor? It seemed really cheap of a god to do that. Arya's interest on his religion was piqued. It didn't seem to defy logic, at lest not to the extent the dwarven one did.

"Why did she hand you in, then?"

"Some Forsworn – a crazy indigenous clan - had kidnapped a little girl who was her next Sybil, her prophet, of sorts. When the priestesses caught me, they quested me with retrieving her 'as a punishment'. I did a little pushing around and they ended up telling me they couldn't find a suitable champion to do it. Not even mercenaries would venture in the Forsworn lands, for fear of the dark magic within. "

"And Dibella picked you as her champion?"

"I am _everybody_'s champion, honestly. I'm always the one people go for when they have something no one else will do – and if no one else does it, there is usually a very good reason. For some obscure motivation I cannot understand myself, I always end up saying 'yes'."

"If so, they could have simply asked. No divine intervention was necessary."

He shrugged. "Probably. But they wouldn't have met me otherwise - I don't linger in places for too long."

While it made sense, there was one question that no one was ever able to answer.

"Why didn't she keep the girl from being kidnapped in first place?"

"Because she can't. The divines can't directly intervene in Nirn, save rare exceptions. She could protect her, maybe, if she was inside the temple. But mostly, what they do is pick a poor mortal sod – usually me -, and ask him to do their biding through indirect means – like getting me caught. Then there is a little reward – in the end, I got to keep the statue."

She was about to ask the logic behind it, but he interrupted.

"They are gods, not caretakers – when things are really bad, the send help, but mostly, they refrain themselves to giving blessings. What you do with your life and others with theirs – that's up to you, and when it comes down to the Aedra, you are on your own. You can't have a Divine watching over your every step and meddling with every little thing. That would be -"

"Ridiculous." She completed.

He nodded. "The Daedra, though, they are a whole different matter. Daedra are beings of chaos and change, and they intervene directly. There are two kinds – the minor ones, like scamps - the sort even a beginner conjurer can summon. Heck, I summon them accidentally every once in a while. And then there are the Princes, the most powerful ones – the Daedra analogue to the Divines. There are sixteen – seventeen if you count Jyggalag."

"And they can simply manifest physically, wrecking havoc on the land to cause chaos?"

"Yes and no. That's where the Dragonborn come into play. It is not a story you will like to hear, though. It has to do with elves and I think you might be…insulted. And while I generally don't mind insulting you, it might give the wrong impression. It may seem I am judging the elves here from what I know about the elves there, and I wouldn't want to do that, would I?" he said sharply, clearly cutting their conversation short.

She didn't reply. Instead, she turned back to her paper, giving her back to him, letting her hands doodle absently while she took in what he had just said.

It was a clear accusation. Thinking back, she had to admit expressing her first impression about him had been rather unwise. She had judged him solely on his position as "Dragon Hunter", without taking in account the whole "not this world" part. And she would have kept her visions, too, hadn't it been for Saphira. The dragon had looked upon the man and seen not an enemy, but her kin. And the way she had proceeded to challenge him – it had been so natural; like a dragon would do upon meeting another.

Colin confused her. She didn't believe in gods or souls, and the idea of a man –dragon was too far-fetched for her, but she couldn't deny there was something different about him.

When they first met, he had jumped to aid Eragon and herself against a group of Galbatorix's soldiers. He attacked them later, but she blamed that on Eragon. It was stupid of him to prod someone's mind without knowing their capacity, especially when the man had done nothing to justify it. Arya knew if someone tried to peek into her thoughts while she slept for no other reason than to quell their paranoia, she would have been irked, too.

There was a moment during their fight she honestly thought he would kill her. He had held her by the neck, choking her, and gazed deep into her eyes. His eyes told a lot about him; she could read his feelings there. At that time, when they locked gazes, or rather, when he had captured hers – for that was exactly what he had done – they had seemed feral, imposing and _hungry_. She had felt herself suffocate, and not just because she was running out of air, either. His attack had been beyond physical, that she could tell for sure, but hadn't been his mind he seized then.

They had locked gazes, and she had felt her will begin to crumble in a way not even Durza had achieved. She had wanted to give in, not because of what would happened if she didn't, but because it felt natural – it felt right. It was right to have his will imposed over hers, and it was a little comforting too, to finally get it all out of her hands.

But, at the same time, there had been fear, unexplainable, as if a very important part of her was at risk and she could do nothing about it. Every instinct had told her to run, because… he had been hungry. He would devour her. And then he had blinked and released her from his grip and the crushing, choking feeling was gone, but it still took her a while to recover.

They ended up getting in an agreement and solving the misunderstanding. He seemed infatuated by her physical appearance, as every human was, which she of course ignored. He had met Saphira for the first time, and it was a wonder the dragon didn't notice the man's nature – but that was probably due to her excitement and relief on reencountering her rider.

Colin had seemed very uneasy then, which she had assumed to be a consequence of being in the presence of a dragon. She knew better now; he had tried, and succeeded, to hide whatever connection he held with the dragons. She had taken it for fear, and so had Eragon, but the young rider had made the mistake of voicing his thoughts, and she realized it had been the second time he had offended the man, which probably explained Colin's strong distaste for him.

They had parted ways and she assumed it was the last time she would hear of him. She had been wrong. News of his interactions with the witch child, Elva, soon reached her ears, how he had somehow calmed her, if only for a moment. She remembered immediately how Eragon's spell on him had failed. Not only there seemed to be something off about the newcomer, he also showed a peculiar knowledge of magic. That alone should have been enough to catch her attention, but she had neglected in favor of something more immediate – Thorn and Murtagh's attack.

They had greeted each other in the air, Eragon and Murtagh, and suddenly, through some unknown spell, there was Colin, crashing right into the nearest Kull. The hungry look on his eyes was back. She didn't pay attention to him then – she had priorities, such as funneling the energy from the elven spellcasters to Eragon.

Murtagh's power was beyond measure and they simply couldn't hold their own against him. The spellcasters began to faint, one by one, and she begun to feel dizzy herself. She was about to black out when he grabbed her and sent a jolting amount of energy into her body. It should have been enough to make him exhausted, but he had appeared unfazed.

And whatever he had done to her the first time, he must have done again, because she found herself heeding his commands. Perhaps it was the despair, the fear of losing another – Eragon was their only hope, and the boy was also a good… _friend_ to her. Next thing saw, Colin was right under Thorn and he _shouted_.

She had never heard the words before, but she could tell whatever the spell did, she did not want to be on the wrong end of it. Thorn had hurled down, in pure agony, and despite being her enemy, she had been horrified. It was wrong to see such noble creature in that situation, and whatever Colin had done, it had been cruel. And then the weirdest thing happened.

He had approached the dragon and Murtagh's pockets begun to shine. They emanated a light, a shining smoke of sorts, and the smoke would go to him like water on a drain. The first tendrils touched him and seemed to enter him, and he'd seemed a bit shocked. It came a second time, making him stumble, and when the third group of tendrils reached him, he was out cold.

She deemed it a trap of some sort from Murtagh, but the rider seemed despaired at what had happened. Eragon had landed next to them and he could have killed them then, but he ended up letting his brother go. Arya was unsurprised at it – Eragon always paid his debts, and he owed Murtagh for the incident at the Burning Plains.

Colin was still unconscious, and would remain so for more two and a half days. Nasuada summoned her when he woke to aid in the interrogations - apparently, him and the Varden leader did not get along, either. Arya was more than a little aggravated when she found out they had placed him in a cell and drugged him. He was dangerous, yes, but so far, he was on their side, and making him a prisoner would only irritate the man and make their interactions even harder.

She was right, of course. When they got there, he was more than a little mad, he was _pissed_. He decided he would play games with them, and that's when she finally understood they weren't dealing with a simple commoner. He knew through means unknown Eragon had left, and flawlessly pointed out Saphira, Elva and the Elves' locations.

And still, he toyed with them. He defied Nasuada's authority and completely disregarded any kind of respectful attitude towards them both. He asked for a decent meal, which Arya had promptly agreed, if only to compensate his unjustified arrest and make him more cooperative.

It worked, and she saw herself listening to a very hard to believe story about other worlds. She would have labeled him mad, if not for Saphira. He had turned to her and spoke in a language never heard of, and the dragon had understood. And thus she had no choice but to credit him, if only a little.

She wasn't sure at which point he became interested in her, but he did. It wasn't necessarily a romantic interest, either – he seemed just plain curious. He came to her the next day and somehow managed to sneak up on her, and had she been an old human, she was positive she would have died out of the surprise.

It was also the first time she begun to make out his personality. He had a childish, impish demeanor and seemed determined to get under her skin. She regretted to admit he did an excellent job, though not for the reasons one might imagine.

Arya sighed. She supposed she owed him an apology, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. Being proud was a flaw of hers, and it made admitting to be wrong something really difficult to do.

_Half the time, they were at each other's arms. The other, they were at each other's throats. They fought a lot, and Glenwing was probably the only one that could keep them together while keeping them away._

_It was less fighting and more bickering, actually. It became their own personal game. Glenwing kept track of it. They would argue about something minimal - If Faölin could please comb that stray streak of hair to the right side, because it was driving her insane. If Arya could please let Glenwing prepare breakfast because dear Weldenvarden, her cooking was awful._

_They would not talk to each other the rest of the day. Then, at night, when the fire was lit, he would say it to one of them._

_"It is your turn this time, Faölin."_

_"Thank you, Glen."_

_It was all he had to say. Soon, perhaps even the same night, she knew Faölin would seek her out and apologize. _

_"I am sorry. I don't think your cooking is awful at all."_

_"Yes, you do."_

_His lips would quirk up "Well, I do, but I appreciate you trying."_

_And just like that, he was forgiven. It was always harder when it was her turn to do it. She would take days to make up her mind and do it, but he was patient._

_"Do you really have to do that?"_

_"Arya -"_

_"You know it drives me mad!"_

_"Arya."_

_"Fine", she would sigh, "I am sorry."_

_"And?" He always pushed his luck._

_"You are a moron." _

_"You know you can't live without me."_

_She did._

"I wasn't aware you played the lute," she said suddenly, attempting to break the tension. She could almost _hear_ the smile in his voice when he replied.

"Of course I do. The ladies love it."

_"I wasn't aware you had knowledge of flowers, Lin."_

_Faölin put on that little smirk of his. She usually wanted to wipe it out of his face, but now, she couldn't help but think it looked a little cute. Not that she would ever admit it, obviously. _

_"Of course I do. How else am I supposed to be seductive? Young naïve maidens love it." _

_He was such a rascal. She wasn't really sure if she was being complimented or teased. With him, it was probably both._

_"Did you love it?" he asked suddenly._

_ He seemed sincere, but she couldn't really tell if he was baiting her into admitting she was young and naïve, if he was asking whether she was a maiden, if he genuinely wanted to know whether she liked the gift, or if he had another different intention altogether. She frowned. She must have spent a good five minutes trying to figure it out._

_ Faölin noticed that._

_ "You're over thinking, princess", he said, arching a brow at her. He burst out laughing, making her blush. She never blushed, ever, but Faölin seemed to have this uncanny skill –_

"Did you love it?" Colin asked, making her doodling hand slip.

"It was horribly out of tune," she answered in a matter-of-fact tone.

He snorted. She heard him get up and place the lute back on the shelf. A quick peek revealed he had put it upside down and she resisted the urge to get up and fix the position. She didn't want to look obsessive, even if she probably was.

_She clung to the little things, because the big ones were falling apart. _

_They were back from the Varden and they still carried the egg. Politics aside, she really wanted it to hatch, even if it was for a human. Every time they returned with it, it felt like a failure. She feared it might never choose a rider, and one day, Galbatorix would decide he wanted every elf dead and they wouldn't stand a chance._

_They stood at the top of a hill, the three of them, and Faölin had a clasp of his armor upside down and she knew he did it just to spite her. He was in the middle, and he wrapped one arm around her and one around Glenwing._

_"Brave Faölin walks again the land of mortals, awe-inspiring beauty and might, accompanied by his two sidekicks, Broody and Sunshine."_

_Arya scowled._

_"You are playing your part perfectly, Broody."_

_And suddenly the three were laughing and the weight was lifted from her chest and she honestly believed everything would be all right in the end._

She shoved the doodle away, suddenly furious. She was mad – at Durza and the King, for taking away what she loved most; at her mother, for putting the two of them up to it in the first place; at Eragon, for not noticing her obvious grief and making it all more difficult. She was mad at the gods, for letting it happen, she was mad at them for _not existing_, and she was mad at the world and the universe because it was all so unfair.

She rubbed her temples, trying to calm herself down. She did that when she was irritated; it was a little quirk she had picked up from her mother. She _needed_ them. She needed Glenwing to brighten up her day with songs; she needed him to hold her back when she felt like hitting someone. And she needed Faölin to be there for her, to make a witty remark when she was angry that would completely throw her off, to –

"If you keep doing that, you'll drill a hole to your brain", Colin said casually from behind her.

A spurt of maddening ire took over her and before she knew, she had picked the nearest object and hurled it to his head. Said object so happened to be her inkwell, which hit him with deadly precision and force, shattering on impact.

She blinked when she realized what she had done. She had those little outbursts every once in a while, like when she had shattered Eragon's fairth of her. What she would usually do in suck awkward situations was get up and march back to her tent before she had to deal with the people, except she was already in her tent and Colin wasn't really offended.

He tilted his head slightly, like a confused dog would, and with the ink splattered in his face it looked quite comic – if not for the blood that started to seep where the glass had cut him. She looked in his eyes and saw curiosity and mischief and a little tint of irritation, but that was it. It made her even madder that he didn't have the dignity to be angry – she felt as if she had just kicked a puppy.

He got up and she thought he would leave this time, but instead he just walked to the tub and begun washing. He was using her tub again, she noted with irritation. _That's because it is the second time you bloody his face._ He finished splashing and shook his head, sending little droplets of water flying all around - one fell right in the middle of the parchment in front of her. Arya's hands twitched.

She didn't offer to heal him, so he did it himself, magically closing the cuts without uttering a word, but Arya refrained from asking about his magic. She got up, and because she couldn't stand it any longer, she went to the shelf and put the lute in the right place.

He watched her eagerly as she did, observing every movement. He walked right next to her and his eyes fell on the books. He picked up the middle one and shifted its position, placing it in the first spot –_like Faölin did - _and it drove her mad because _it was asymmetrical._ Her hands flew to the book and put it back to its place, spine out this time, so that all three titles were shown. She turned to him to see he wore a cruel little smirk.

She had to get that man out of her tent, _now_.

"Where do you want to go?" she asked in a defeated tone. His face brightened up immediately.

"Walk with me", he replied.

She followed him out of the tent, not sure where they were going, and not really caring much, either, as long as he wasn't disrupting her order. For a while, they walked in silence, and she noted for the first time he wasn't wearing his armor. He had gauntlets on, gloves and boots, his sword hung on his hip and he had apparently acquired a shield, which rested on his back, but his cuirass was gone.

"What happened to your armor?" she asked, breaking the silence. He shrugged.

"I woke up in the morning and it was giving off this weird glow, and that's when I realized today is a full moon night, so I decided not to risk it."

She couldn't possibly imagine the relation between the full moon, a glowing armor and why couldn't he wear it. He spoke before she could ask any further questions.

"So what's between you and Eragon?"

She clenched her fists and took a deep breath, not dignifying it with an answer.

"I don't know what you see in him; he is such a prick… He must be great in bed to compensate it."

If she had a hundred inkwells, she would hurl them all at his face right now. She opened and closed her hands, counting to ten. The only reason she did not strangle him was that getting her off her cool was exactly what she wanted.

"There is nothing between Eragon and I", she said finally.

"Really?" he sounded genuinely surprised. "Why not? He might be a milk-drinker, but sure does like you. And you like him, too, if only a little."

"I don't -"

"There is someone else, isn't there?"

"There's no -"

"Did he turn you down? Is that why you are always so … broody?"

"Shut up!" she snarled furiously again.

_She'd always been a little grumpy – the whole queen-to-be issues were a pain, after all, but it wasn't until her father's death and her mother's subsequent withdrawal that it became her default state. It was exactly what Faölin noticed when they first met. _

_She'd been coming out of a meeting with the queen. With The Fall, the elves began to retract back to the forest, and Arya saw new faces almost every day. Every time a newcomer arrived, he had to present himself to the queen and state his business, explaining her mother's impatience. That day, however, she seemed especially aggravated. _

_He was on her way back to her room when they bumped into each other. He hadn't apologized, or excused himself, or formally greeted. He'd turned to her and said, "Why so broody, elf princess?". And just like that, he walked away._

She was surprised to see Colin had actually shut up. He had stopped and was looking at the surroundings. She saw with a startle they must have been walking for a while, because they had put a good distance between themselves and the troops. They were in a large open area now, though she could see the edge of woodland in the distance. He raised up his head to the sky, eyes closed, and took a deep breath. She waited, curious as to what exactly they were doing there. He opened his mouth, and he shouted.

There weren't any words she could discern, but his voice was louder than it was possible, traveling, carrying a clear challenge to anyone who dared take it. A couple seconds of pure silence passed. Then she heard a roar in the distance – Saphira's roar. Colin was smiling wildly, and that's when she realized exactly what was about to happen.

"Here?!" she yelled at him, "Now?!" _Is he mad?!_

His head was still turned to the sky, looking in the distance.

"Why not?"

"We are in the middle of a war, that is why! What if we were attacked tomorrow?"

"I'd worry about it, tomorrow. This has to be done."

Saphira landed in front of them, and he took a step forward, drawing his sword and shield.

"_Drem Yol Lok, Dovah._"

_"Greetings, Dovahkiin."_

"Does your challenge still stand?"

Saphira's only response was a wild roar to the skies.

She knew enough about dragons to see nothing she would do or say would stop them now, so she ran backwards to give them space. For a moment, they just stood there, facing each other, then Saphira roared again and Colin roared back, and they were at it.

Every elf had, at least once, studied dragon-fighting techniques, and Arya had been especially well trained in that aspect, due to her role in the fall, but mostly, because there was always a slim but terrifying chance that she would meet Shruikan while transporting the egg. Based off her own experience, she could tell Colin knew what he was doing.

He had moved off Saphira's front and to her flank, avoiding her bites. Saphira twisted quickly, however, and he had to struggle to keep up, let alone land a blow. Saphira's wings moved wildly, throwing him off balance. He bolted to the side, now facing her back. _Watch out for the ta-!_

He dodged back just in time to avoid a devastating tail blow that would have crushed him, and he took the chance to slice with his own weapon at the dragon's scales. Arya caught herself mentally cheering him – not because of any kind of sympathy, but because the odds were so ridiculously against him, it was hard not to.

Saphira opened her wings and beat them hard, staggering him while she took to the skies. The dragon glided forward, gaining altitude, then turned back straight at him, mouth already flaming. Saphira flew closer and closer, holding it back until she was near enough so that her fire would reach him and burn him to a crisp.

_He's dead for sure now -_

"_Fo Krah Diin!_"

The words carried clear despite the distance, and they had a freezing ring to them, like cracking ice.

Fire met frost in the skies. Saphira's hot breath collided with the cold emanating from Colin's mouth in a deafening hiss. Steam rose out where they touched, creating a heavy mist, and for a moment they were both engulfed in it. Then Saphira's wing beats dispersed the fog, and she saw Colin had sheathed his sword and was now shooting what seemed to be lightning from his hands. Saphira beat her wings harder, getting out of his reach – but out of her fire's reach as well.

Clopping hooves caught her attention and she saw a troop approaching, led by Nasuada herself. Arya groaned and rushed forward to meet them and explain the commotion, before they endangered themselves. She ran as fast as she could, closing the distance with incredible speed. Her fellow elves were there as well, headed by a not very happy looking Blödhgarm, but they refrained from interrupting – Saphira's orders, no doubt.

A heavy thudding signaled what could only be her landing, the ground shaking with her weight. Arya called out to Nasuada and spotted her somewhere to her left. She bolted in the direction –

"_Tiid Klo Ul!_"

Like a breath being caught in someone's chest, time stopped. It was unlike anything she had ever experienced. Time…stopped. Not completely, she noticed, but slowed down to an almost standstill. Her legs held in the air mid-step, and she could see, half in awe, half in horror, the little pebbles she had kicked while running falling down, slowly, as if not through air but through water.

She moved her gaze up, slowly, slowly, slowly, and saw a rearing horse, its paws frozen midair. The, like an arrow being released, time rushed back in. Arya tripped, dazed from the experience, and stumbled to Nasuada. _Did he do that?! _Suddenly, the whole story about sending a dragon to the future seemed a little easier to believe.

"Did you – Did you feel that?!" Nasuada asked, exasperated.

Arya nodded. "There is nothing to concern yourself about, Nasuada. Saphira and Colin are fighting."

She realized her first sentence did not quite go well with the second.

"Nothing to concern myself about? They are killing each other!"

She turned back to the fight.

"They are not – _ah_."

They _were_ killing each other. Colin had somehow managed to severely wound Saphira's right wing, making it impossible for her to take flight again. A long cut laid across the dragon's muzzle, and she was limping on one leg. How had he achieved such feats in the little amount of time it took her to reach the Varden leader was beyond her. Then again, time did not seem to be too much of an issue there.

The man wasn't much better himself, however. His shield had been half-chewed off and he was bleeding heavily from at least four different spots. His lack of armor – _Who fights a dragon without armor?! – _was certainly prejudicing him, and from the way he moved, Arya could tell he had a couple broken ribs, if not more.

He was flanking Saphira again, but Arya noticed he was a bit careless when it came down to her front limbs – as if he didn't expect them to be there. He ducked, avoiding a blow from the dragon's claws and making a small nick of his own on her. Saphira hissed. Turning quickly, she struck him from behind with her tail, hitting his back and making him fall to the ground. His sword clattered a few feet away, and before he could go for it, the dragon had him pinned under her heavy paw.

_"Yield", _she heard Saphira's mental voice rumble. He didn't have a choice, really. He was caught under the dragon's paw and there was nothing he could do from that position –

"_FUS RO DAH!_"

It turned out "sky-shattering" was not a lyrical exaggeration, but actually a really accurate description of the power. His voice rung like thunder, unleashing a bitter fury that only made it more remarkable, and the ground literally shook, making Arya struggle to keep standing. The horses went absolutely berserk, bolting around while their riders tried to control them.

The spell, the _shout_, hit Saphira's side, and the force, whatever it was called, pushed the dragon, completely destroying her balance. Saphira had to lift her paw to stabilize herself, and Colin took the chance to roll away and retrieve his weapon. Leaning on it to help himself up, he stuck the sword on the ground and closed his fist, making the light of what she recognized as his healing spell wash over him. _Where's the energy for that coming from?_

Saphira snarled, recovered from the blow, and faced him again. He took his sword and they resumed their combat.

"Demons above and below", Nasuada said, and Arya thought it expressed her own feelings really well. "We must stop that."

"No." Arya said firmly.

"I do not care about their petty dispute -"

"Arya Dröttningu is right", Blödhgarm spoke in a very displeased tone from her side, and she was a bit surprised to find out he agreed. "It is not our fight to stop."

"It is reckless! They could kill each other!"

"You could have died in the Trial of Long Knives, too."

That shut Nasuada up, Arya noted with smug satisfaction.

There was a certain grace to the way they fought; it was almost like a dance. They would twist fluidly around one another, landing blows with exquisite ferocity. Arya never thought she would see a man, a human nonetheless, take on a dragon and actually hold his own. Except he wasn't really human, was he? And it was then, watching the two collide in battle, that she finally understood.

She saw then exactly what Saphira had seen so immediately. It was a little question Oromis loved to ask her. "_If you put a dog's mind in a cat's body, is it a dog or a cat?" _A cat was a cat even if it thought it wasn't._ "A cat"_, she would reply without hesitation, and Oromis would hive her that kind, warm smile that irritated her because he knew something she didn't.

Is a man in an elf's body a man or an elf? She thought back to Eragon and how he had chased after her in Ellesméra – and how much he had changed since then – and how he _still_ did stupidities, such as staying behind in Helgrind.

Is a dragon in a man's body a dragon or a man? The answer was so clear now. It was both. A cat would be a cat _and_ a dog the same way Eragon was a man _and_ an elf, and Colin was a man _and _a dragon. She didn't know how that came to be, but it was the truth all the same.

"There is a certain beauty to it", Blödhgarm commented. "I cannot hope to understand a dragon's wishes, but I can't deny that somehow, there was wisdom in Saphira's choice, even if it is not one I can see."

_And he doesn't even know the half of it. _Arya realized she really would have to apologize to the man later – if he came out alive, that is. The thought made her feel a little sick, not for any special concern about Colin himself – the man was an asset, and a powerful one at that, but nothing more - but because the thought of owing an apology to someone heaved on her very much.

_They had argued again the day before it happened, and it had been Arya's turn to say it. She didn't do it on the same night like he would – she was just so damn proud. And now she would never get the chance. She would give anything to be able to tell him she was just so, so very sorry._

On and on the fight drew. The soldiers managed to control their horses and were now openly cheering – both man and dragon. She saw money trade hands and realized they were betting. One of the elves took out his coin purse, and Arya wondered on whom he was betting on. She had no idea who would win herself.

Saphira stuck a particularly hard blow on the man, making him fall to his knees. In a irate roar, Colin threw what remained of his shield aside, using the now free hand to cast a healing spell.

"Not his best move", Blödhgarm pointed out. "The shield was still usef – Now, what is he doing?"

Colin had abandoned Saphira's flank, instead moving directly in front of her. It was a terrible idea, and Arya wondered if desperation was clouding his judgment. The dragon's front had everything he wanted to avoid – the fangs, the front claws, the fire breath. Saphira snaked her head forward and bit, but he dodged to the left at the last second. They repeated this twice, him going a little more to the left every time, but Arya knew the man's luck would eventually run out, and so would the boost he had given himself through healing.

And then he did something that made her jaw – and everyone else's – drop. Saphira bit again, a little more to the left side so as to catch him evading, but this time, Colin dodged to the right, placing him in front of the dragon's exposed head. He propelled himself forward, half jumping, half climbing up Saphira's skull in amazing nimbleness. He used his free hand to secure a hold in on of the dragon's spikes, and with the sword hand, he struck.

Arya gaped. His blade went down again and again, cutting the dragon's neck, face and sides. Sometimes, it would slide into Saphira's mouth, slicing her gums and tongue. The dragon shook herself violently, her neck swaying in every direction, but still he held on. "Yield", he snarled from the top of her head.

Saphira let out a frustrated roar, moving her head twice as hard. She tried to get him off with her front limbs, but they weren't long enough to reach her head, of course not - that's why she needed Eragon to scratch her muzzle and jaws.

Colin struck again, dangerously close to her eye, and Arya saw that, had this been a fight to the death, he would already have impaled his sword in the dragon's brains. Saphira tried fruitlessly to throw him off. "Yield!" he repeated. The dragon roared once more, bellowing flames, but the heat didn't seem to bother him. Then she stopped, head still. Not even the horses dared make a sound. Saphira's voice echoed through their minds.

_"I yield. Thuri, Dovahkiin."_

Colin released his grip on her head, falling to the ground. All at once, the men behind erupted into cheers, clapping their hands. The elven spellcasters bolted forward and she found herself accompanying them, rushing to the dragon's side. She halted and begun to inspect an ugly wound near Saphira's right nostril. She noticed Blödhgarm and three others working on the wing.

"Have you any serious wounds?" she asked the dragon

_"Only to my pride,"_ Saphira answered bitterly.

"That's right, don't mind me", she heard Colin whine from the spot on the ground he laid sprawled on. "I am perfectly fine."

The clopping of hooves announced Nasuada and her men had finally reached them, and she saw the Varden leader dismount and question the elves about Saphira's state of health, much to their annoyance. Arya decided the dragon was already being very well tended to, so she spotted Colin and walked to him.

She helped him up into a sitting position, and letting his sword on the ground, the man closed both his fists, making a flow of restorative light envelop him, closing his wounds. She watched as he healed, pulling energy out of a mysterious source and fixing even the most complex cuts without a word. She couldn't hold back her curiosity.

"Where is that energy coming from?" she asked

"Aetherius.", he mumbled. What was Aetherius again? She realized she never asked him.

"I would show you," he continued, "But I don't think Sovngarde is something for elven eyes to see. You could ask Carn, but I doubt he would be able to present you anything other than a very elaborate magical mess. It's not something particularly easy for the mind to discern."

She had no idea what he was talking about, or who Carn was. She shot him a confused look that was also a little pleading – she knew he was aware of something amazing, but unwilling to share it with her. He sighed.

"Ask me again some other day and I might let you take a peek in my memories. I won't show you Sovngarde, but I think there would be no harm done in giving you a feel of Auriel's bow."

She raised a quizzical eyebrow at him.

"The bow Auri-el used against Lorkhan. It channels energy from Aetherius through the Sun and has a wicked effect when combined with Sunhallowed Arrows -" he noticed her blank face, "Look, some other day, okay?"

The light on his hands flickered twice, then dimmed and extinguished itself. She noticed he wasn't fully healed yet.

"Why did you stop?"

"I ran out", he said, as if that explained everything. Her other eyebrow went up.

"I ran out," he repeated, "Of magick, magical energy, whatever you call it here."

She decided maybe some other day would indeed be better. She offered him her hand and he took it, pulling himself up with a wince – he was still severely wounded. He picked his sword from the floor and slid it back to its sheathe. Nasuada had apparently given up questioning and was standing to the side, watching strained as the elves moved from Saphira's wing to her side. Her soldiers lingered around, unsure what to do, eyes darting from Saphira to Colin in a mix of fear and admiration.

_Out with it already! _

"Colin." He turned to her, and she struggled, forcing the words out. "I think I owe you an apology."

"I think so, too. In fact, you owe me many. What are we talking about here? The inkwell you hit me with today?"

He wasn't going to make it any easier, was he? She grit her teeth. _Do it. You might not have another chance. _A sharp agony cut her chest, but she forced it down.

"I think I misjudged you. I drew conclusions simply because you named yourself Dragon Hunter, and now I know it is… different from what I imagined. You must understand, though, why I reacted that way. Try to see it from my point of view -"

"Ah-ah. No excuses. I didn't see you through my point of view, even though in my world, elves are supremacists who torture people for fun and would enslave all races of men _again_, if given the opportunity_. _I gave you a chance even though every elf here has a little ring that _screams _Dragon Priest and your stuck up attitude reminds me of the Thalmor."

She had no words to counter that, because in the end, she knew she was the one wrong. She had forgotten his world had different standards, too, and by the looks of it, _very _different ones. It was damn hard to admit it, though.

"Fine!" she snapped. "You are right! I am sorry! Happy now?!"

He chuckled. "Apology accepted. Come on, _Fahliil-Kulaas_, let's have a drink."

"I don't drink", she replied. It was a half truth – she did drink, just not the Varden's brew, for no special reason other than it tasted horrible.

"You don't have to. But I want a drink and I need you to use your influence as _Kulaas_ to convince the kitchen workers to hand me in some. Plus, I am out of coin."

"I wouldn't mind paying you a drink", a soldier who had overhead them commented. Others mumbled in agreement. Of course they wouldn't mind paying the man who had beaten a dragon a drink, especially if they had placed bets on said man and won.

"Ah, I thank you very much", Colin replied, "But I wanted to have a drink – with the lady." He gave them a suggestive little smile and the soldiers whispered in approval. She suddenly wanted to strangle him. She growled, making him chuckle again.

A loud rumbling from Saphira caught their attention and they turned to see her giving one of the elves the evil eye. The elf shot her an apologetic look and resumed mending. Arya noted Saphira had a particular sullen look. Colin apparently saw it as well, because he frowned.

"_Dovah._ Stop looking so glum. It offends me."

_What?! He surely does_ _have a way with words, _Arya thought sarcastically.

_"How can I not feel glum when I have been bested by one less than half my size?" _Saphira snapped. No one else seemed to hear, so she guessed the dragon had spoken to them only. The reply earned an irate snarl from Colin.

"_Dovah_," he said, dangerously, "I have slain countless unnamed dragons, from Normal to Frost, from Blood to Elder, from Ancient to Revered to Legendary. I have slain Mirmulnir and Sahloknir. I have slain Vuljotnaak and Vulthuryol. I have slain the twins Naaslaarum and Voslaarum, _at the same time._"

His voice dropped to a low whisper. "_Alduin, feyn do jun, mah wah dii Thu'um._" Whatever that meant, it made Saphira's eyes go wide. He raised his tone then, "But by the Nine, _Dovah_, if even so you deem me unworthy, maybe you should take your complaints to the World-Eater himself!"

He breathed in, letting Saphira think about it, then spoke again, with a softer tone this time.

"You are but a few years of age, and yet you gave me more trouble than some _Dov_ that aged at least millennia. So _stop looking so glum. _It offends me."

_"Geh, Thuri."_

"Pruzah." He turned to Arya. "Come, I really need that drink, _Fahliil-Kulaas_."

_And I really need to finish my report. I suppose the queen will want to hear about all this, _Arya thought, but followed him anyway. His narrowed eyes darted around the area, stopping on Nasuada, whom currently had her back to them, then on the nearest soldier.

"You," he whispered quietly to the man, "Hand me your helmet." The soldier shot him a puzzled look.

"Nasuada will talk my ear off, and I just want to have a drink", he explained. Grinning, the man removed his headgear and handed it over. Colin put on the helmet, partly hiding his face, and together they sneaked out of the battlegrounds and back to the camp. When they were far enough, he removed the head covering, shaking his hair off his face.

"_Fahliil-Kulaas_"_,_ he said wonderingly, "That's a mouthful, don't you think? I need something else to call you."

"How about my name?" she suggested, "Arya is only four letters."

"You know, that is not really a bad idea," he mused.

She rolled her eyes.

"Better than Ser Stoic, anyway."

_What?_

Her thoughts were interrupted by their arrival on the kitchens. He walked to the balcony and asked for a mug of mead, which was promptly denied on the basis that it was not included in the soldier's rations.

He pointed at Arya with his thumb, a triumphant smirk on his face. "I'm with her", he stated. She just nodded wearily. "Of course, Ambassador", the man replied, then rushed inside and back, carrying two flagons. Colin picked them up and took a seat on a nearby table, placing a mug in front of himself and the other on the empty seat, which he beckoned her to take.

She sat down and he raised his cup. _Maybe I should warn him. _ He chugged a long gulp and immediately choked, his eyes bulging out.

"Nine and Seventeen, that's awful!" he coughed out in surprise, and then his face changed to a suspicious expression. "You _knew_, didn't you?"

A ghost of a smile crossed her lips. He scowled, then drained the rest of his cup, and asked for another, despite the flavor. She had to admit the man had quite the stomach.

"So, what's your burden?" he said suddenly, once his mug had been refilled.

"I beg your pardon?" she asked

"Your burden. If you got any gloomier, you would have your own particular raining cloud over your head. What's weighting you down? "

She glowered at his prodding. "You have no idea what you are talking about."

"Hence the questioning", he replied smugly.

"It is none of your business."

"Nor is the rebels' issue with the king, but I'm helping anyway, aren't I?"

_When you aren't challenging our local dragon._

"We are at war, Colin. It tends to weight people down."

He shook his head at her. "This isn't going to work if it is one sided. I've answered all your questions, haven't I? It's your turn now."

"People die. I kill people. I don't like it, only a madman would. Our chances of winning are slim. It is normal to be gloomy in this situation."

He drained his cup again. "Yes. It will chase you at night, the faces of those who went down through your blade. When you lay down, you'll fear defeat and its consequences. But what haunts in the dark does not haunt in the day. Something different troubles you – guilt? Regret?"

He stopped, looking at the now empty mug thoughtfully. "It has to do with the man, hasn't it? The one you fancy."

He was smart, Arya realized with surprise. Unlike Eragon, he had picked up the little signals and put them together. Not that Eragon was dumb, no, but he could be just so _oblivious_ sometimes, particularly when it came down to her and her feelings. She remembered his fairth – the young rider had built an idealized image of her that he seemed unable to let go of.

Colin was different; he was sharp, he was perceptive. He seemed to see right through her mask, and she now realized his teasing went beyond just annoying her. He got under her skin and while he did, he whisked out information, reading her reactions – or lack of reactions – as one might read a book. He baited what he wanted to know out of her and she usually bit it.

"You are not half as dumb as you seem", she said, because he did seem dumb on first impression - he acted like an infatuated teen. She realized he had the makings of a great spy.

"I'll take that as a compliment", he replied.

"It's a fact. Are you a spy?"

"Haven't we gone through this already? I'm on your side." He said irritated.

"I know you are not spying for anyone. But, are you a spy?"

He considered her question. "It depends. I am a thief, and information is one of the things I steal. Journals, military reports, I can get those. And standing in the dark overhearing private conversations, I can do that, too."

The man in the balcony filled his mug again. Arya's hands inched towards her own, and she began to fiddle with it.

"But the whole pretending to be something I'm not, I don't do that. I'm not a schemer; I just don't have it in me."

She nodded. "You have a way with words. You trap people with them."

"It's unintentional, mostly. But you are dodging my question. What happened between you and the man?"

She drained her own mug, the already warm liquid tasting even worse than usual. It left a bitter aftertaste in her mouth, and she made a displeased face.

"Faölin. That's his name." She wouldn't have Colin calling him "the man".

"Faölin", he repeated. "What happened?"

"We… had an argument. I had the chance to apologize, but I didn't. I regret it now."

It was so silly. She knew Faölin would have forgiven her if he were alive, she was sure. It wasn't even a real argument, just their usual bickering. But he had died, and she hadn't apologized, and the guilt was gnawing at her inside. She missed him so much.

For a long while, Colin said nothing. He seemed to be having an argument with himself, uneasily twiddling his thumbs. In an occasion, she would swear she heard him whisper to exasperatedly to himself, "But I just fought a dragon!". Arya watched him curiously.

"Ah, screw it," he said, slamming his tankard on the table, a look of renewed determination on his face. "Do you want to? Do you want to tell him you are sorry?"

Either he wasn't as smart as she had thought or he was just being cruel.

"He's dead, Colin." She said icily.

"That's not what I asked."

Was he offering her some sort of religious compensation? She would slam her mug in his face if he was.

"Of course I do. Didn't I just say I regret not doing it?"

"And if you had a chance, would you?"

"Where are you trying to get with this, Colin?"

"I'm assuming he was like you – he didn't believe in any god?"

So it was a religious compensation. Arya felt a pang of disappointment. For a moment, she had almost hoped –_What? Talking to the dead? _ She mentally chided herself.

"It is not usual for elves to", she stated simply.

"A not commended soul, roaming amongst the infinite realms of Oblivion and Aetherius," he said, his tone neutral. "You'd have to be an amazing tracker to find it. An amazing Huntsman."

He got up abruptly. "Luckily, it's a full moon tonight. Well, I supposed it's settled then. Meet me on those woods near where I fought Saphira, tonight, at midnight."

She rose too, staring at him seriously. "What are you taking about?"

He winked at her.

"It turns out you'll get what you wish twice over. You'll meet your friend. And you'll meet the god who can find him. And I'll get in trouble again, but that can't be helped."

"Midnight, Princess!", he called out, before running out of the door and leaving her staring.

Arya threw a coin to the man in the counter. She stepped out of the kitchen pavilion to see it was already sunset. Colin's proposition was ridiculos. It was impossible, and more likely than not, she'd waste her time. Every sensible bone in her body told her to ignore him and get a good night's rest. The very idea of going was absurd.

And of course she would go.

On the way to her tent, Arya sighed. _If I hurry, I might be able to finish my report._

* * *

**_*Dodges flying tomatoes*_**

_**It turns out I did manage to squeeze a chapter in, hooray me!**_

_**I am not a hundred per cent sure, but I believe it was Classy Cynic's suggestion that I did a take on Arya's point of view. As you guys may or may not remember, I was struggling quite a lot with writing her.**_

_**This helped me get to know the character better, though it was quite a pain to write, precisely because I didn't know the character well. And in the end she came out like that : usually grumpy, slightly OCD, a fierce skeptical, but mostly, someone very pained by the loss of two close friends.**_

_**It was also fun to write Colin through her eyes, because I had to not only think what he would do, but also what would she think of it.**_

_**Since it's something entirely new I'm trying, I'd be very happy if you guys could give me your honest opinions. Like it? Hate it? Should I try something like this again or stuff it in the closet and pretend it never happened? And mostly, did I get everyone in character?**_

_**I've sort of assumed you guys prefer longer chapters to shorter ones, and I certainly hope I'm right because this was the longest one yet.**_

_**On a side note, I'm celebrating reaching the 100th review and over nine thousand (It's over 9000!) views, and I would just like to say I love you all and you rock. Special thanks for ShadowedFang for beta-ing!**_

_**Thanks for reading!**_


	11. Chapter 10

The night had fallen cold, and Dovahkiin shifted uneasily on his feet to warm himself up. He had been observing this world's moon and stars, and from their positions, he judged it to be almost midnight. The cool wind caught on the still damp hair on the nape of his neck, chilling him. After he had bidden Arya farewell, he'd immediately proceeded to his tent to finish healing himself and bathing. He noticed with a tad of concern he might be developing a slight cleanness obsession, but he blamed that on Alagaesia's unbearable heat that insisted on making him stink.

The sky was dotted with heavy rain clouds, and for a moment, one of them covered the moon, plunging him into complete darkness. Or almost complete; through the eyes of the wolf designed on his Cuirass, a slight reddish glow escaped. Dovahkiin had avoided the Daedric artifact earlier, for fear of its effects on his behavior under the full moon, but now he was going to summon the very Prince whose influence he had tried to escape and wearing it or not wouldn't really make a difference. If Hircine wished to toy with him, he would, and there was nothing Dovahkiin could do about it.

The cloud passed, revealing this world's nameless moon that bathed him on a silvery- yellow light. A pang of longing reminded him painfully of his time as Hircine's hound - his taste for the hunt had remained even after he had given up lycanthropy. It was different – while before he had been affected by the Bloodlust, now, when Secunda shone full in the skies of Tamriel, he felt as if hunting was a particularly pleasant hobby he desired very much to practice, and more often than not, he would accompany Aela in heeding the Huntsman's call.

As far as daedra went, Hircine was not one to be considered evil. Like nature itself, he inspired at the same time awe and fear. As much as there was danger, there was also a certain beauty in Hircine and his realms, which carried both the freedom of the wilderness and the prison of the bloodlust. The Prince was not particularly cruel; his pray always had a chance to escape, if only for the sport of it, and he had refrained from severely punishing Vilkas and Farkas for repudiating his gift.

Furthermore, he knew, once one had proven himself to Hircine, the rewards were sure. Aela's relationship with the Huntsman, for instance, had a fatherly tone that much resembled Dovahkiin's own relationship with Nocturnal – demanding, yes, but like he could count on the shadows to hide him from the most accurate eyes, so could Aela count on her aim to be true. On all this years of knowing her, Dovahkiin had yet to see Aela's prey to escape, and her archery would easily rival the best bosmer's.

Dovahkiin's relationship with Hircine was unfortunately not as stable as his friend's. He knew the Prince had a heavy influence on him – his dual nature as mortal and dragon might not strictly classify him as a Manbeast, but it was surely just as conflicting. And what had happened when Hircine raised the Bloodmoon only proved that the Dovahkiin's control over his wilder side was not as strong as he wished.

And while he had for multiple times served the Huntsman, and continued to do so through the Companions and accompanying Aela on her hunts, Dovahkiin knew he had also defied him by aiding Vilkas and Farkas get cured, and by releasing Kodlak's soul from the Hunting Grounds.

All in all, it came down to one point: Hircine was a Prince, and as a general rule, summoning those entities was a bad idea. Adding the Huntsman's specific nature with Dovahkiin's own beast side, what he was about to do went from 'bad idea' to 'very, very bad idea'.

A steady ruffling announced someone's approach, and he smiled when he identified the stranger as Arya. He had half expected her not to come, and then he would have to track her down and drag her out there, which while fun, would be a waste of moonlight.

"You came!" he said cheerfully, "I had half a mind you wouldn't."

"If I hadn't, you would have found me somehow and bothered me the entire night, aye?"

_Aha! Good to know she's learning._

"Glad to see you know me this well."

It was too dark to make out her face, but he could almost _hear_ she roll her eyes. He hoped she could hear him grin, too.

"Your armor", she noted in a puzzled tone, "It's shining."

"Yes, little elf, that's what I meant when I said 'giving off a weird glow'."

"Little elf?" she growled, her tone cutting.

"That's what I've decided to call you. Do you like it?"

"No", she replied coldly.

"Great! Little elf it is, then"

"I'm taller than you" She pointed out.

"You are. Point being?"

He was willing to bet she was rubbing her temples at that exact second.

"Wasn't there a reason you weren't wearing that armor?" she changed subjects.

"Aye, but you rendered that useless when you put me up to _meeting_ the god whose influence I was trying to avoid."

"Speaking of which," she snapped irritably, "You promised me a god. I see none."

Dovahkiin sighed. "Fine, but before we do this, you have to know exactly what we are dealing with. I'll explain, and then we can go, if you are still up for it."

Through the dim illumination, he saw her nod. "Remember what I told you of Aedra and Daedra?"

"Gods and demons", she replied.

"Yes. We will summon a daedra – a demon, if you will. A Prince, to be more specific. Extremely powerful, dangerously unstable; so if you value your life, listen closely."

"And if he is so powerful, what makes you think he will heed your summons?" she asked skeptically.

Dovahkiin considered her question. Usually, he was the one trying to avoid the Princes, not the other way round. And even though he already met Hircine only a couple weeks before, he was positive the god would come.

"I can't be sure. But -" he paused to think. _Why_ would he come? "Well, for one, the moon is out. And then, Akatosh's plaything is calling from another plane of Mundus, accompanied by none less than a heretic elf. Why _wouldn't _he come?"

He heard Arya snort, but she kept silent, so he took that as a signal to continue.

"Right, so, we will be dealing with Hircine. I'm hoping to convince him to find your man - "

"Faölin", she added briskly

"Aye, aye. I'm hoping I can convince Hircine to find Faölin's soul so you two can fix your unsolved business and you can finally get rid of your doom-and-gloom cloud."

She hissed threateningly, but he ignored her. "The reason why I chose Hircine is because since your ma- since Faölin's soul was not commended, it could be virtually anywhere in Oblivion or Aetherius, and because Hircine is the Huntsman, I _know_ he can find it – for a price, of course."

"Which would be?"

Dovahkiin shrugged. "Anything but my soul. It's already Akatosh's."

He heard Arya let out an irate breath and knew his vagueness irritated her. She was, he mused, a very curious person. She hated not knowing things.

"Tell me about the one we are meeting, then. Hircine." She urged impatiently.

"Hircine", he repeated, "The Prince whose sphere is the Hunt, the sports of Daedra, and the chase and sacrifice of mortals."

"Lovely", Arya commented sarcastically. He ignored her.

"He is known as the Huntsman and Father of Manbeasts, and as such, all were-creatures fall under his domain."

"Like werecats", she said, more to herself than to him. "Very little is known about them or their origins. I should question Solembum on that later."

Dovahkiin had never heard of werecats, but he knew there were tales of werelions from Black Marsh. He supposed a cat lycanthrope was as possible as any; Hircine loved making experiments after all.

"I was his hound for a while," he said quietly, "It didn't work out; the wolf spirit, it disagreed with my dragon soul."

_It agreed too much, you mean._ Arya didn't say anything; he had a feeling she did not know what he meant by being the Prince's hound. Dovahkiin didn't feel like explaining, either, so he just dropped the topic and continued onto more important things.

"There are a few things you need to know before we seek him out", he continued, "One of them is how to behave. Hircine is not particularly picky when it comes down to courtesy – much to the contrary, he is rather wild. He does expect you to acknowledge his power though, so greet him respectfully. Nothing too fancy, that irritates him. A short bow should do."

He scratched his beard, trying to elaborate what he had to say next. "Dealing with him is…complicated. You are supposed to act submissive, but not too submissive. Does that make sense?"

"It doesn't" she replied curtly. "I can't tell if I should treat him as a king or as a commoner."

"Neither – I don't think you understand his nature. Hircine is a beast, little elf. Cower too much, and he will devour you; he has no sympathy for the weak. But challenge him, and I can assure you a terrible death. He is the very embodiment of the wilderness – you'll see it when you meet him."

"If so, I expect it not to be too unfamiliar. Elves are very well acquainted with nature. If he actually is a nature god, I believe I can deal with it. "

He just _knew_ she was going to get them in trouble.

"Now listen, I know you are curious and I know you don't believe me, but please, by everything that you hold dear, don't try anything funny. Don't attempt to touch his mind – you'll go mad before you can say 'oops.' Don't talk to him unless he talks to you, and if he does, address him as Lord Hircine. Don't do anything that might call his attention, because you really don't want that."

He could tell she didn't like it – he could practically feel the distaste coming off in waves from her. And yet, she didn't understand.

"Hircine is not fundamentally evil, but when he meets us, he will toy with us, and I need you to do what you do best and keep up the stoic act." He instructed.

"Lovely", she said again, "Not evil. Not at all."

He exploded then, because she was being difficult and he simply did not know what to do. Explaining a god's nature was already impossible, and it only got harder if the listener refused to believe.

"He will toy with us, like a cat does to his catch! He is a predator, Arya! Is a wolf evil for hunting down deer?"

"No", she replied promptly, "That is the wolf's nature. It does not make him evil."

"No, not unless _you_ are the deer! And that's exactly what we are, two happy fluffy deer walking straight into the wolf's nest - does that put things into perspective?"

To his surprise, she said, "It does, somehow. I can understand what you mean – it's like how the dwarves feel about the dragons."

Slightly relieved, he decided that should be enough warning. All that was left was to talk about the final issue, and then they could go. "There is one more thing. A little problem you might have to deal with."

"Which would be?" she was sounding really irritated now.

"Me." He replied.

"You've been trouble ever since you stepped on this land, Colin."

He ignored her sharp remark and proceeded to try and put into words yet another thing he could barely understand. "It's not – not _me_, but the dragon-me, which is still me, I suppose, but -"

He could hear her tapping her feet fretfully. He paused to elaborate. "Think of it as two separate entities", he begun, "There is me, the charming witty mortal, and there is the Dragon, who generally wants power, destruction and well, being a dragon. Except -" he stopped again.

"Except?" she pressed

"Except the Dragon and I, we are _not_ two separate entities. We are two sides of a coin. I try to control it, the urge to dominate things, the desire for destruction, but it's a fight against myself. And like you sometimes slip and throw inkwells on people's faces, I slip, too. Some specific things tend to stir my wilder side."

She seemed thoughtful for a while, and he wondered if she was remembering the time he had almost taken over her soul.

"Such as?" she questioned.

"Fighting. Dragons. Fighting dragons. Daedric Prince Hircine. Fighting dragons and meeting Daedric Prince Hircine _on the same day._ Amongst other things."

"So you are saying you might suddenly go feral on me?"

"I might suddenly decide I want to take over the world. In that case, I'm counting on you to remind me I'm not in fact winged, fanged and scaly. That's all, I guess. Do you still want to do this?"

"I left aside my report to do this, Colin. Report that, might I add, would already be long done if you hadn't decided to fight Saphira, thus making me add fifty more pages on your battle strategy - especially that suicidal final move of yours -"

"You needn't have worried, dear lady; I had it all under control. I've been doing that for years."

"Plus a ridiculously lengthy description of what I've decided to call 'the bent time incident' and what could possibly have caused that."

His mouth twisted in a toothy grin. "I did, of course. That one has to be one of the hardest shouts ever – even I had trouble mastering it. Heck, I bet dragons have trouble mastering it. It's just as bizarrely abstract as _Feim_. "

Even in the dim illumination, he could see the whites of her eyes widen. "How?" she asked eagerly, "How could you interrupt the flow of -"

She continued on a stream of questions filled by very complicated words. He furrowed his brows in concentration, trying very hard to understand what in Oblivion was she talking about. He realized he must have looked a lot like Farkas listening to Heimskr on the Wind District. For a brief moment, he had a hilarious albeit disturbing vision of Arya clad in robes screaming about elves that ate little children and the love of Talos.

"Divines, little elf, I don't know. I could do it again sometime and then you can look for your space-time canteen."

"Continuum", she corrected exasperatedly.

"Aye, whatever that is. Listen, we are wasting moonlight. Can we go?"

Without waiting for her reply, he moved forward, entering deeper and deeper into the woods. The vegetation got gradually denser, until it blocked the moonlight almost fully. The darkness didn't bother him, quite the contrary; Nocturnal's embrace made him feel more secure, and he knew that despite the thickening undergrowth, he would not make a sound or trip.

Arya followed right behind him, make little to no noise, and he realized she must have heightened senses. He didn't know whether it extended to all Alagaesian elves, but he had noticed that when it came down to physical prowess, hers was similar to that of vampires and were-creatures. _Or Dragon Priests. _When he felt they had gone deep enough, he stopped. Behind him he heard her halt as well.

"Now what?" she asked from behind him.

"Now," he said, raising his head to the sky, "We hunt."

He heard her step forward to stand next to him. "Elves don't hunt or eat meat. We refrain from unnecessarily killing any creature."

_What?_

He had never given much thought to it, but now, he realized he had always taken Arya for some sort of half-blood mix of Altmer and Bosmer. Her skin had a tawny tone that was darker than the pale gold hue of the High elves but lighter than the usual Wood elf tan. Like the Altmer, she was taller than most men; indeed, she towered over him a good two centimeters.

Her build, however, resembled very much the Bosmeri's light and nimble one, and so did her raven black hair – the color was unusual amongst the High mer but common in the Valenwood people. Her green eyes, however, were mostly seen among the Altmer.

Her attitude certainly backed his first impression – she seemed stuck between the Bosmer's forest ways and the Altmer's arrogant demeanor, which he guessed made her a Cultured Barbarian, or, maybe, a Tree Supremacist. What he certainly did not expect was for her to be a _vegetarian_.

"_Really?_ Elves who don't eat meat? You are not teasing me, are you?" his tone was more than vaguely amused.

"Is there a problem?" she said defensively.

"It's just – well, you sort of resemble the Wood Elves back home. They love their damn trees, too."

"Something wrong with that?"

"Well, not really. But, you know, they decided they would only consume meat-based products, including, but not limited to, each other. Part of their pact with the trees dictates that a fallen enemy must be completely eaten before three days pass, so when they plan battles, they plan feasts, too. I find it disturbing somehow, but to each their own, eh?"

He really, really wished he could have seen her face. As it was, he heard a sharp snapping sound that he assumed was her jaw dropping.

"Are you serious?"

"Dead serious. No, you may not eat me."

"So elves in your land are supremacists who want to torture and enslave humanity, and then… _eat_ them?"

He burst out laughing. "I think you might be confusing them with the dragons. But when you put it that way… Sithis, little elf, you've certainly shown me a whole new perspective."

"If you keep being so loud, you'll scare off all the pray from here to Surda", she censured him.

"I thought you say elves didn't hunt?"

"They don't. That doesn't mean I don't know how to do it. I do not approve taking a life for rituals of dubious nature, Colin. You'd better be sure this will work."

"I'm positive. You can take the skin and meat to the Varden, if it makes you feel any better about it."

_If there is any skin and meat after we are done, that is._

"Not much. What exactly are we hunting?"

"I don't know. What is there to hunt here?"

Arya drew in an aggravated breath. "Mostly deer. Birds, too. Maybe a boar or two."

His eyes dropped to the ground and he begun searching for tracks, the way Aela had taught him to. It was dark, though, which made them all more difficult to spot.

"How about that?", he said, taking a few steps forward.

He stopped in front of a large three whose bark had been ripped by what had to be claws. He traced his fingers over the markings, realizing that they had to be at least three inches deep. Whatever beast had left those markings, it was _huge_. Arya walked next to him and pushed him to the side. He saw her hands extend to the tree, and realized even her must be struggling with the lack of light.

Closing his eyes, Dovahkiin concentrated. He opened one of his hands, letting the other rest in the pommel of his sword just in case. He focused as hard as he could and released the spell, feeling an almost imperceptible drain on his magick. He opened his eyes to find a hovering ball of light over him.

He had successfully summoned a candlelight. Not a scamp or a daedroth or a dremora_, _but a candlelight, which was exactly what he had wanted to do. _Aha! Take that, Farengar_. Arya's eyes drifted curiously to the light ball – _his_ successfully summoned light ball – and then back to the tree. She knelt down to examine it closer. She stood there for a while, scrutinizing the tree and the surrounding ground.

"Well? Do you know what it is or not?" he asked after Arya had been looking puzzled to the tree for almost five full minutes.

"I do, but – that's not meant to be here."

"What is it?" he pressed.

Arya replied with a growling sound.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Shrrg", she repeated. "But they don't live here. They are native to the Beor Moutains. There is just no way one could survive in these woods."

Dovahkiin felt a prickling feeling of unease. It sounded like something Hircine would do.

"What is it, exactly?" he asked without really wanting to know the answer.

"A giant wolf."

_Ah, shit._

"He knows we are coming," Dovahkiin whispered. A loud, cutting howl sounded in the distance. He expected some skeptical reply from Arya, but none came. A droplet of water fell on his shoulder, followed by another, and soon the two of them were shivering under a persistent drizzle.

Without him ordering it to, his candlelight went out. Usually, that would not worry him – his control over magic was less than great, and ending prematurely was the least he could expect from any spell he performed. But it only increased his suspicions that Hircine was already out there to get them.

"Shit," he cursed, "The rain will erase the tracks. We must be quick."

As if on command, the clouds uncovered the moon once more, immersing the forest in clarity. The moonlight touched the ground, and the tracks became clear, seeming almost to glow. A flock of birds took flight in the distance, and their clapping wings in the wind resonated like a mocking laughter.

To Dovahkiin, the sign was clear enough. The god was giving them one last chance to do the sensible thing and turn back. Arya seemed to get the message, too.

"Let's do it", Arya said, but it sounded almost like a question.

He raised his head to the sky again and his eyes locked in the moon. He felt his pulse quicken with a familiar thrill. He wished, not for the first time, he still had the beastblood.

"We hunt", he said firmly.

_Or we may be hunted._

In response, the creature howled again, even louder. Dovahkiin eyed the tracks and the direction they lead. He took a step forward, then another, and then the moon was hidden. They drowned into darkness once more, but this time, the familiar comforting feeling didn't come. He had willingly walked into Hircine's game and he knew he was very likely beyond Nocturnal's aid now. _Divines help me_.

But he knew they wouldn't either. He was on his own.

He heard Arya mutter something, wait for a little while, then say it again.

"I beg your pardon?" He asked, for he had not understood her words both times.

She shook her head gravely.

"A spell, to provide us light. But it refuses to work, for some reason."

There was no clearer sign than that – the game was on, and there was no more turning back. The two of them would meet The Huntsman that night, or die trying. At least he could bask in the satisfaction that his own spell had been terminated by the Prince, and not by his own magical inability - hopefully.

"Hircine's game, Hircine's rules. He expects us to hunt in darkness."

He pulled out Dawnbreaker, and the sword's faint light added to his armor's glow were enough to let him see the deep claw marks the Shrrg had left on the ground. He bolted forward, his feet splashing in the ground, Arya following close behind. The rain got heavier, whipping his face; the water added weight to his clothing, slowing him down.

His progress was arduous. The trees extended their branches on his way, scratching like claws on his skin as he raced through. The very soil seemed to grasp at his feet, the thick mud sucking his boots in like quicksand, and tree roots made him stumble.

He needn't have worried about the creature's tracks, though. They got gradually more obvious. Giant clumps of fur were caught on brambles, and the prints on the ground were so large and deep, they remained visible despite the rain. As he advanced, he could see small trees that had been tossed aside. He imagined the beast racing, its heavy paws ripping off the saplings from their very roots and sending them flying as one might do to pebbles when running.

He noticed some not so small trees had been split in half, presumably by the Shrrg's heavy shoulders as it dashed through the woods. The path ascended, making Dovahkiin think they were probably climbing up a hill. He could follow the tracks almost without looking now. And then, suddenly, he halted, making Arya slam on his back.

"What-?" her breathing was heavy and he knew she was having just as much trouble as he was.

"End of the line", he panted.

In front of them laid what used to be two huge oaks. The trees had grown side by side, but now each was broken in one direction, destroyed where the creature had forced its way. It hadn't even bothered to go around them, no, it had pushed right through. The only time Dovahkiin had seen something similar was a few months after his initiation in the Circle, when Aela, Vilkas, Farkas and himself had chased a mammoth. The panicked beast had desperately forced its way through the forest, leaving holes not unlike the one before him now.

And beyond the trees there was a clearing, faintly illuminated by moonlight. He knew that was where he would confront the creature. Together, they walked forward, slowly, forcing their way through the vegetation. They reached the broken trees and climbed over them, stepping into the open area. They walked in silence until they were on the middle of it. Dovahkiin heard growling from his side, and, for a brief moment, he had a glimpse of the beast.

The creature was at least the size of a horse, probably bigger. Like the stag he had hunted not long before, the Shrrg's fur was pure white, its eyes burning yellowish amber. Unlike the stag, however, the creature was extremely threatening. Its claws were huge, almost the length of Dovahkiin's palms, and the fangs were even longer. The moon shone over it as it had over Sinding. Fifteen hundred pounds of pure muscle and Bloodlust took a step forward –

A cloud moved over their source of light. And they were encased in pure darkness.

_Ah, shit!_

"Back to back!" he barked to Arya. He needn't have; she was already positioning herself. He waited, extending his senses as best as he could, hoping to hear any sound that would warn him of the creature's location.

Silence.

How could something that blasted big be so quiet? It didn't help that the now heavily pouring rain probably covered whatever noise the beast was making. Where was it? He cursed his glowing armor and sword that probably made them an easier target. Then again, it didn't matter – Hircine's creature would have found them either way.

Where _was_ it? What was it waiting –

"Down!" Arya commanded, pulling him to the ground. A very heavy something whooshed over them, missing his head by inches. The elf raised her blade in the air, and with a sickening tearing sound, the beast's underbelly skin was cut open. He felt hot blood splash his hair and face. The creature let out a yowl that was, to Dovahkiin's despair, more of anger than of pain. And then it was quiet and all he could hear was the rain.

They pulled each other up and resumed their previous stance. An idea crossed his head and he cursed himself for not thinking about it before.

_"Laas Yah Nir!"_

The world flashed multiple colors and despite the darkness, he could see. He turned back, looking for the Shrrg, but all he could see was Arya's green aura. He looked around. Where had it gone? Left – nothing. Right – nothing. He faced the direction he had been facing before and saw an approaching shining shaft of clear silver moonlight -

Too late.

He shoved Arya out of the way and barely had time to raise his hand to shield his neck. The creature was on him, knocking him to the ground. Thick fangs bit deep on his arm – it had gone straight to the throat, as he knew it would. Using his other arm, Dovahkiin landed a heavy strike on the creature's shoulder. Dawnbreaker's fire didn't ignite. _Damn it, Hircine!_

The Shrrg growled furiously, intensifying its tearing grip on his arm. Its front paw fell on him, kicking Dawnbreaker away and pinning his other arm down. Dovahkiin was beginning to bleed heavily. _Laas_ faded away and to top it all, now he couldn't see the accursed beast anymore. A slicing sound indicated what was probably Arya lashing out at the creature somewhere near. It didn't seem to notice.

With inhuman effort, he concentrated, charging up Sparks in the hand that was being chewed and Flames on the one that was being crushed. He released both spells at the same time, effectively lighting up the place for a few seconds. The combined heat and electricity made the beast loosen its grip on Dovahkiin's arms slightly, and, taking his chance, he hit his knee as strongly as he could against the creature's underbelly.

With a surprised yelp, it flinched, releasing the arm that was under its paw. The gush of blood that wet Dovahkiin's legs told him that he must have hit the same place where Arya had wounded it earlier, by sheer luck. _Oh thank you, Nocturnal, thank you!_ Using his free arm for support, he managed to rise to an almost sitting position. His Thu'um was still recovering, but he succeeded in forcing out one word.

"_Yol!_"

A gush of flames came out of his mouth and straight into the Shrrg's face. The heat made the beast release Dovahkiin's arm, and he promptly pulled it back, away from the wolf's jaws. It provided them brief illumination, and Arya took the chance to bury her sword deep into the creature's side, puncturing its lungs. It roared in fury, turning its scorched face towards the elf. Dawnbreaker was too far away to reach, so he used his still-whole hand to pull the carving knife from his belt.

He felt a hot breath in his face and knew the creature had turned its attention back to him. Using the knife, he lashed out blindly –

The blade buried itself into the Shrrg's eye.

Luck.

_I love you, Nocturnal!_

It reared itself in its back legs, snarling, and Dovahkiin managed to roll off from behind it. He spotted Dawnbreaker, its glowing diamond calling to him like a beacon in the darkness. He scooped the sword and jumped up, his bleeding arm limp and completely useless.

He could hear the Shrrg's heavy breathing now, giving away its position. It was finally weakening. Dovahkiin let his sword down in an arc and felt it meet flesh on the way down. The beast barked irately, hitting him with its shoulders and shoving him away. Dovahkiin stumbled, but didn't fall. He heard more growling and assumed Arya had landed a blow, too. _What does it take to kill this thing?! _He heard stifling movement to his side and ducked just in time to avoid a slicing sword.

"That's me, damn it!" he snarled to Arya.

"Sorry!" she replied, but he wasn't listening, already focused on the approaching sound to his left. Where was it? Where was it? He jumped back and thrust his sword forward, meeting resistence; he pushed, burying Dawnbreaker up to the hilt, impaling some part of the beast. _Please let it be its throat-! _The creature stiffened, a gurgling, suffocated noise coming out of it.

It _was_ the throat.

A heavy thump was heard when it fell; a quieter thump sounded when Dovahkiin let himself fall to his knees, feeling light-headed from the effort and blood loss. The Shrrg's breathing slowed down. Dovahkiin knew what had to be done. He pulled out his sword and raised it again.

"May Hircine claim you to his hunting grounds", he snarled, then, letting his hearing guide him, struck down in the creature's head. A pained howl echoed through the woods, and then the beast was finally dead.

He heard an almost imperceptible sound next to him and assumed that Arya had also decided standing was too much trouble. He didn't say a word, though. Instead, he sheathed his sword and feeling around the beast's body, identified and pulled out his knife. The blade came out with a squelch, and Dovahkiin slid it back to his belt – it had saved his life once, it might come in handy later.

In the complete darkness, the glow of his healing spell illuminated the area, allowing him to take a look at Arya. Dovahkiin saw she was hurt, and how the beast had achieved that while keeping its attention on him was beyond his imagination. He would have offered to heal her, but she was doing a fine job herself and he had his own wounds to worry about. He flexed his arm as the spell stitched muscle together, glad to have his full mobility back.

"Now what?" she blurted out, sounding strained.

"Now", he laughed dryly, "Now is when things begin to go bad."

He closed his eyes and waited, taking in the sounds of the forest. Despite the rain, he could hear an owl hooting, crickets chirping and birds crackling. He could also hear Arya's steady breathing. As he rested, slowly but surely, his dizziness and nausea subsided. It would have been a pleasant moment, he mused, if he wasn't freezing to death and waiting for his imminent doom.

Then it all fell into absolute silence. Even the rain seemed to grow quieter. Dovahkiin opened his eyes.

The clearing was bathed into moonlight so clear it could have been day. He saw the body of the beast to his side, its white fur now caked with mud and gore. A stream of blood ran from where he had delivered the final blow. More of the red liquid seeped from other wounds, mixing itself with the rainwater that flowed down and effectively creating a blood creek.

A silvery mist began to escape from its wounds, rising up like smoke. Dovahkiin's pulse quickened. Arya reached for her sword, but he caught her wrist on his hands and shook his head 'no'. She got the message and proceeded to eagerly watch the beast. The smoke grew thicker, also flowing from the creatures' mouth. Then its eyes shone bright, the color Secunda did during the Bloodmoon.

The Shrrg rose to its feet. And then it spoke.

He felt his blood run cold. He felt his heart skip a beat. He heard the dragon roar inside. His body went into fight-or- flee mode. He felt every single muscle tense.

_"Such a messy kill for one who carries 'Hunter' in his name."_

Hircine's voice echoed both through his ears and through his mind. He wanted to scream. He wanted to attack. He obliged himself to get a grip and managed to force out an answer.

"A dragon hunter, my Prince, and I believe clean-killing one such beast is beyond mortal prowess."

Hircine's shrill laughter mixed itself with the drumming rain, making Dovahkiin shiver.

_"So feisty. A pity you cannot be mine."_

The wolf took a step forward, approaching Arya. Dovahkiin realized he still held her wrist. She was shaking. He couldn't really blame her. Hircine bore its eyes on her, tilting his head to the side as if curious.

_"And what have we here? An elf who does not believe in gods."_

The wolf's face twisted in a snarl, revealing its long fangs still wet with blood. _His_ blood. It inched closer and closer, until its muzzle almost touched her forehead. To her credit, she managed to keep the blank face even with it this close. Dovahkiin had to admit she had guts.

_"I cannot blame you, child. Your gods-"_ Hircine took a step back and looked her in the eyes, _"Are dead."_

Silence followed its statement, broken only by the sound of the increasingly heavy rain. Dovahkiin was unsurprised. From the beginning, the lack of Aedric presence had been clear on this world. One thing still puzzled him, though. Hircine seemed in a good enough mood, so he decided it would be safe to ask.

"Why not the Daedra, though, my Prince? Why do you not walk this land?"

The wolf's head snapped back to Dovahkiin, but it didn't seem angry, or at least, not about to kill him.

_"Chaos for the sake of chaos is not the way of the Princes, but that of Sithis."_

The wolf paced around, walking to their backs. Neither of them dared turn, however.

_"Here lies this land, empty of those you call Aedra. So vulnerable. So defenseless. It would be so easy to take it over! But tell me, child -"_

He felt the wolf's breath on his neck, as warm as if it was still alive, yet as chilly as Winterhold's glaciers. He knew the Prince was trying to scare him to death. It was doing a pretty good job.

_"Why would Dagon walk a land with no Akatosh to challenge him?"_

The wolf moved away from him and he felt Arya's shivers intensify. He guessed Hircine had moved on to trying to scare _her_ to death.

_"What business has Molag, King of Rape, in a land with no Dibella to counter him with pleasures? With no Mara to counter him with love? "_

Why Molag?

A terrible foreboding took over Dovahkiin. Hircine knew _exactly_ what to say to get under one's skin. He knew the Prince had mentioned Dagon because of his own status as Akatosh's champion and because of his particular admiration with his predecessor, Martin Septim. But _why_ Molag? _Why_ had Hircine addressed that specific realm of Molag and not his most common ones, domination and enslavement?

He knew. Deep inside, he knew. He and Arya would have a _long_ talk later. If they got out of there alive, that is.

_"Tell me, children", _Hircine said slowly, _"What sport is there in hunting prey that cannot -"_

The wolf snapped his jaws, biting the air between Arya's head and his own, missing both their faces by less than an inch. It let its head linger there, so close, Dovahkiin could feel the charred fur on his skin. He was assaulted by the smell of burnt flesh, despite the heavily pouring rain.

_"- escape?"_,Hircine finished.

The wolf removed its head, and Dovahkiin let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding – only to catch it again as the Prince walked back to where they faced. It sat, looking at him with amusement.

_"Tell me, Dragonborn, why did you do it?"_

There was no use in playing fool, and he knew exactly what Hircine was talking about. Sinding. The bloodmoon.

_"You dared defy me. You turned my hunt inside out. You hunted down my hunters – much to my entertainment, might I add."_

He had taken Sinding's side. He had aided the man against Hircine's hunters. He had tracked down and killed every one of them – and they were pathetic, really. An offense to the Prince's name. And then -

_"Did you plan it? Was Boethiah mistaken about you?"_

And then he had turned to Sinding, and he had killed him. _Why? _ He had been asking himself that question ever since. Why had he killed the man he had promised to help? Why had he done it? He hadn't planned it – such thing would never cross his mind. He was not a schemer. Had it been out of fear of the Prince's ire?

_"You and I know very well that was not the reason. You have defied the Princes more than once. You have spat on Vaermina's face without second thought. You are no coward, Dragonborn, so stop fleeing from the truth. "_

Because he could. He had done it simply, purely because he could. He had killed a man he had offered aid, because no one could stop him. He had done it because he had the power to, and if so, why not use it? Because having the power also gave him the right. Yes, he had been under Hircine's Bloodmoon and its influence. Yes, traces of lycanthropy still lingered in his blood. But that wasn't it, and he knew it.

_"You are losing it, are you not? We Princes wonder, Dragonborn. We wager on you. How much longer will you last? What will you become?"_

The wolf rose to its feet and begun pacing in front of them.

_"Will you be like Pelagius, the mad? Will you be like Potema, the Wolf Queen?" _

The title seemed to please Hircine, who somehow twisted the wolf's face in a smile.

_"Will you be like Tiber and rise to glory through conquer? Will you ascend into heavens, hiding your darker deeds? You cannot hide them from us, Dragonborn. We know."_

Hircine was tormenting him. He knew his insecurities and he took sadistic pleasure in toying with them. Like a damn cat did to its prey.

_"Will you be a martyr like the one you admire such?"_

He was going to lose it, he just knew he was. He tried to calm himself. He would not give in like Hircine wanted. He had more control than that –

_"Or will The Last of the Dragonborn follow The First's footsteps?"_

He lost it. With a snarl, he was on his feet and facing the wolf.

"I will be my own person!" he growled, and there was a trace of the Thu'um on his voice that made it sound louder than it should.

The wolf bared its fangs at him. He bared his fangs back. Some sensible part of him told him he was being suicidal, but he past caring now. Hircine cackled again, but its laughter didn't bother him anymore. His blood was boiling.

He and the wolf stared each other down. Crimson met blue and they held one another's gaze for a full minute. And then another. The Prince seemed to bring out a turmoil of feelings he did his best to ignore. Rage, frustration, hatred, and above all, hunger. An animalistic hunger – for power, for destruction, for fear and domination. For souls.

Thunder clapped next to them, and the wolf's eyes widened. It stepped back, seeming genuinely surprised –

And then its eyes shifted from blood red to yellow and the pupil grew slanted. It stepped forward, and much to Dovahkiin's surprise, buried its muzzle on his belly, poking and sniffing like a dog would. When it spoke, it was with a distinctly feminine voice.

_"Well, well, well, aren't you the cutest thing to walk Nirn since my Martin?"_

_What in Oblivion -?!_

_"I find you mortals with dragon souls very attractive. Or aromatic. No, no, that's cheese."_

The wolf jumped back, pulling his head as if it had been hit, eyes closed, fangs bared. _"Sheogorath -!" _ Hircine's voice hissed.

_"Tut, tut, Hircine. You know the rules. Stormy nights are mine!"_

Ah, _shit_. He had completely forgotten about the weather- stormy nights belonged to Sheogorath, even if he – she? It? – was not the Prince summoned. Now he had a mad god to deal with. On the other hand, considering the way his conversation with Hircine was going, the interruption was timely and welcome.

If there was any way a gigantic, half burnt, gore covered beast could look _cuddly_, Sheogorath achieved that. The creature walked towards them, all the imposing menace lost. It sniffled Dovahkiin again, then it noticed Arya and hopped towards her, its tail wagging wildly from side to side.

_"An ELF! Aren't elves and the Blades sworn enemies? Ooooh, I remember the Blades! There was Jauffre! And Baurus! I wonder if they would like to come over for tea."_

He realized with concern that he hadn't instructed Arya on dealing with Sheogorath. Then again, there was no correct behavior when dealing with the mad god. Arya shot him a confused look. Sheogorath caught it.

_"Oh-ho-ho, exchanging looks, are we? Are you his girlfriend? Ahhh, the Dragonborn. Such heartbreakers. You watch him very closely, else he turns into a dragon god when you least expect it!"_

The wolf poked Arya's chest with his muzzle, throwing her of balance.

_"Why so quiet? Cat got your tongue? Maybe I should get it. It goes great with cheese and brain pie."_

That wasn't going too well. He had to divert the god's attention, somehow. Fortunately, it wasn't too difficult.

"Lord Sheogorath!" he exclaimed suddenly, taking its attention off the very troubled elf. "We've met, remember? You were on vacation on Pelagius the Mad's mind."

_You sounded a lot less womanly then._

Dovahkiin had noticed immediately this Sheogorath was different from the one he had met before, and if Akatosh could be at the same time Alkosh and Auri-el and possibly even Alduin, Dovahkiin supposed nothing stopped the Daedra from taking different aspects, either.

There was something about this particular side of Sheogorath… it had not escaped him - the feminine voice, the way it had referred to Martin Septim as _'My Martin' _ and its familiarity with the ancient Blade heroes Jauffre and Baurus. If legends had indeed happened and if what they told about her disappearance into the Shivering Isles after the end of the Oblivon Crisis was true, Dovahkiin suspected he might be speaking with the Hero of Kvatch.

_ "We have? So that's where I have been hiding! Unbelievable!"_

The wolf walked back to the middle of the clearing.

_"I must go! I must fetch myself back from where I'm hiding and back to the Isles!"_

It turned to Dovahkiin, who simply did not bother to try and understand whatever the Mad God was talking about.

_"Nocturnal sends her regards, little mortal. She was the one who told me to come, you know? She was furious that Hircine was playing with her shadows."_

So Nocturnal had put Sheogorath up to the very timely and welcome intervention?

_I love you, Lady Nocturnal._

_"Do look me up if you happen to pass by the Isles. Ta ta! Sheo's out!"_

And with that, the wolf literally exploded, sending flying masses of yellow substance, both solid and liquid. No, not yellow substance. Cheese.

Dovahkiin stood there, frozen in place, sticky with blood and mud and _cheese_ of all things. He could have stood there for hours, letting the rainwater wash away that mess and thinking about what in Oblivion had just happened. But Arya had told him he had a way with speech, and now he had to live up to it. So he summarized the whole experience with one simple word.

"Fuck," he exclaimed bluntly.

"Fuck," she agreed from the spot she still knelt on the ground.

He offered her his hand to help her up and she took it. He noticed she was shivering. His Nord blood gave him resistance to cold, so the rain, though annoying, did not bother him as much as it did to her. Usually, he would have teased her about it all, but he had a feeling the cold was not the only reason she was shaking. Besides, he was wet and troubled and all he wanted to do was get indoors. And then he could tease her.

Despite everything, the way back to the camp was much easier, probably because Hircine wasn't trying to saboteur them. They reached the tents' area and Dovahkiin, being the gentleman he was, decided he would walk her to her place, if only because she owed him some answers. _Why Molag?_

They reached the tent flaps and she pushed them open, quickly walking in. She didn't invite him, but then again, she never did, so he pushed in as well, staining her tent with his dirty messy self. He bumped into her – apparently, she hadn't moved from the entrance. He was about to ask her what was wrong when he saw it.

A blue specter stood there, not unlike those he would eventually meet when dungeon-diving. Dovahkiin's hand immediately flew to Dawnbreaker, but the phantom didn't attack. Instead, it just stood there, looking confused. Arya seemed frozen in a state of shock.

"…Lin ?" she finally spoke, barely a whisper.

And who would have guessed Hircine would find them the damn soul after all. Dovahkiin hadn't expected it, not after the way their meeting had ended, and he certainly hadn't expected the Prince to do it without asking for anything in return. In fact, he hadn't even properly _asked_ the god to do it.

Why had Hircine done it was completely beyond him. An act of generosity? To see their dumb stricken faces? Had he done it simply because Dovahkiin wasn't expecting him to? Was he compensating the Dragonborn's previous services? Had he been just plain amused by their meeting? Was there another completely different reason?

He had expected the god to punish them, or at least punish _him_. At best, he expected Hircine to just let it slide. Getting what he came from was definitely not among the possible outcomes in his mind. In fact, he was already getting used to the idea of never being able of peacefully walk in a forest, just to couple with his resignation that he would likely never sleep soundly anymore.

Generosity, though, was not something Daedra were known for. If there was one thing he could be sure of, is that Hircine would come back to bite at him later.

Damnable Daedra. Utterly unpredictable. Dangerously unstable.

Damn them.

_I should become a Vigilant of Stendarr, _ Dovahkiin thought with annoyance.

"…Arya?"

He took on the specter's features for the first time. Like Arya, his physique resembled a cross between Bosmer and Altmer. He was slightly taller than her, and considering she was taller than Dovahkiin and said Dragonborn was not what one would call short, that made the phantom tall indeed. That aside, there wasn't much to say about the ghost –it was ethereal, not unlike Dovahkiin himself after _Feim._

"Lin -?" she repeated, "How - ?"

"Arya! You wouldn't believe what happened to me. There was I, enjoying my afterlife – It turns out we do have afterlife! – and then out of the blue this _creature_ with antlers comes and hurls me and suddenly here I am and – By the Menoa, Arya, you look terrible, all wet and bloody and is that _cheese_? What sort of hellish affairs have you been up to?"

The specter turned to Dovahkiin, then to Arya, then back to him. Faölin narrowed his eyes.

"Have you been – frolicking – with humans?" His lips curled up in an impish smile, letting his meaning very clear. "Usually I'd be jealous, but I'm a little too _dead_ for that."

Arya finally found her voice, "Faölin! I'm not – we are not- !"

She was clearly having trouble articulating herself, so Dovahkiin decided to clear it up.

"Me and little elf here? Oh, I _wish._"

Faölin burst out laughing. "Already on a nickname basis, too?"

That was when he realized he really did care for her. On the beginning, it had been just the sheer desire to be a pain, but now Dovahkiin saw he was starting to actually see Arya as a friend. She was nice enough, he realized. She had the snobbish elven attitude that would usually infuriate him, but on her it was different because it was so clearly untrue. She wasn't a supremacist – much to the contrary, she actually seemed to find beauty every little difference between humans and elves and urgals and whatnot. In a grumpy, snobby way, but she did.

And then there was the fact that she was just so curious it was endearing. Somehow, he couldn't shake off the image of her stopping a random traveler in Whiterum and asking him if he'd ever seen a dragon. Yes, they are really, really big, Dovahkiin would reply. Yes, they can breathe fire. No, they did not come in pink, not as far as he knew.

She was fierce, too, and determined, and stubborn as a mule. All in all, she was someone who he wouldn't mind fighting side to side with or sharing a mug of mead after a hushed day of hunting and war. Dovahkiin didn't think of himself as racist, not really, but he couldn't help but think that for an elf, she was really befriend-able. And all that realization came from one simple, crazy observation.

He'd rather see her with Faölin than with Eragon.

It didn't even make sense. Whom she got intimate with was not any of his business, but still; if he had to choose between the dragon rider and the elf to be with his newly acquired friend, he would choose the elf without a second thought, even if he was, well, an elf. Of course, it was her choice to make, not his.

But _still._

He just couldn't shake off the feeling that this one elf was better to his friend than that one rider. Not that he would know, he'd barely even met her, or Faölin, or Eragon. What in Oblivion was he thinking about anyway? Divines, if she heard his thoughts she'd have his head. That attitude couldn't be normal. Must've something to do with the Dragon.

_Sure, lad. Blame the Dragon._

_Shut up, Brynjolf._

He turned his attention back to what the two were talking about. Or rather, what Faölin was talking about – Arya was still too stunned to make any coherent sentence. It was probably too much in a single day for her – poor little elf.

"… Horrible red skies, rivers of fire and horrendous unnatural creatures. Then there was this other place that was impossibly beautiful and colorful like twilight -"

"Moonshadow", Dovahkiin commented, "And the other one was Dagon's Deadlands. You don't want to go there."

"I sort of figured that by myself, but thanks for the warning either way." The elf replied.

"You've been walking Oblivion."

"I've been walking everywhere. I've been to the other place, too – I can tell there are two different places and I know when I go from one to another. This other place -"

"It's called Aetherius."

"Aetherius," Faölin repeated, tasting the name. "Aetherius is a nicer place, but I can't really stay there. I can enter it, but then I just ... fade away."

Dovahkiin nodded. "Because you revered neither Princes nor Divines, your soul was never commended. That's why you can enter it, but not stay – no Aedra has claimed your soul. It should be the same if you try to settle anywhere in Oblivion. I suppose some Princes would claim you without much thinking, but then you'd end up in one of those places you just don't want to go."

The specter seemed to take that in. "So I guess I'm destined to roam the heavens and hells for eternity. Pity – I was sort of hoping I could finally settle down." His tone was resigned, albeit disappointed.

It was sad, Dovahkiin realized. Back in Tamriel, even if one did not worship neither Prince nor Divine, they would still have their souls claimed. Merchants, for instance, were usually Zenithar's, and politicians, Juliano's. Women who dedicated their lives to being mothers could count on Mara's embrace. But this world had no Aedra to do that.

And Daedra usually refrained from claiming souls without direct worship. As a general rule, the Princes had no patience to carefully watch a mortal's life to weight in which sphere they belonged the most. It was unnecessary – plenty came to them freely, following promises of power and wealth. Even the most extreme Princes could find worshippers; Dagon and the Mysthic Dawn, for instance, or Molag Bal and the vampires.

His thoughts were suddenly snapped back to Molag Bal, whom Hircine had made a point to mention to Arya for reasons he _knew_, as much as he hoped to be wrong. Dovahkiin hated Molag Bal. He hated the Prince with every single cell of his body.

Molag Bal, who held Serana's soul.

_"Why are you so persistent?! I've told you a thousand times to drop it!" Serana hissed furiously at him._

_"It's important to me, Serana!" He all but begged. And he would, too, if that was what it took to make her listen._

_"It is not your choice to make! I've paid a heavy price for this power and I will not give it up!"_

_"Is that what this is about? The power?"_

_"I'd expect you of all people to understand that!"_

_Her words hit him almost like a physical blow. A knife between the ribs would have hurt less. He flinched, and regret crossed Serana's face – she had wounded him deeply and she knew it._

_"Why is it so important? You don't seem to mind your lycanthrope friend, and she feasts on the flesh of beings as much as I do." Her tone was softer, but still firm._

_"Because Hircine is not the daedric prince of rape!"_

_Understanding finally crossed her face. That was it – he worried about her. She would not live forever – though she had been doing a great job so far – and Dovahkiin would be damned if he was letting Molag Bal take her soul. _

_He pulled out Auriel's bow from his back and placed it in her hands. "If it's power you want, Serana, then this should do. I trust you to do the right thing."_

_It was probably blasphemy of the worst kind- giving Auriel's bow to a Daughter of Coldharbour. Isran would have his head when he heard of it. Dovahkiin couldn't bring himself to care. _

_The sun came out normally the next morning and all the following ones, as it should be. And Dovahkiin hadn't met Serana ever since._

He shook his head to clear it and focused on the matter at hand. Faölin had seemed agreeable, friendly even – Dovahkiin didn't think he deserve to wander eternally. But what could he do about it, really? An idea begun to form in his head. He was Akatosh's agent, and he had followed the Wayshrines of Auriel, which technically made him an initiate.

"Seek the realms of Auriel and find the keeper. He'll ask by what rights do you request entry."

Faölin had turned to him mid-sentence and narrowed his eyes. Dovahkiin could tell he was listening eagerly. "What do I say then?"

"Say, 'By the right of honor. I was commended by Ysmir'. The keeper will challenge you then, and should you prove yourself worthy, you will be allowed passage. The nature of the challenge is unknown – from a fight to a trick question, it could be anything."

He had served the god both as Auriel and as Akatosh. And he did share the dragon god's blood. Dovahkiin was no priest, but he hoped all that gave him enough authority to commend a soul.

Faölin nodded. "And if I do happen to best the challenge, what will I find inside?"

Dovahkiin shrugged. "I don't know. Little is known about the realms of Akatosh, let alone its elven aspect. But being a Divine, it's highly likely it'll be some shape of paradise, and full of elves, too. "

The specter nodded once more. "I suppose it's better than endless wandering. Thank you, stranger."

"Colin", Dovahkiin offered.

"Colin", the phantom repeated. "I'm afraid there is one more thing I must ask of you. I'd have you leave for a moment, if you would. I expect you to understand."

He understood. Faölin was asking for privacy – for some time alone with Arya. Dovahkiin wouldn't really deny the specter that – giving her a chance to make up with him was the very reason why he had gone through all that hell. Still, he shot the ghost a suspicious, 'I'm -watching-you' glare, just to make a point.

"Please," Faölin urged, "This shape is dissipating. I don't have long."

It turned out Faölin knew the magical, all powerful word-of-words. _Please_. Finally, after what had to be two full whole weeks in this world, he heard someone say a 'please'. An elf, nonetheless. Dovahkiin would _definitively_ pick Arya this man over Eragon.

"I'll be outside", he said, then promptly stepped out of the tent –

And back into the chilling rain.

What-oh-what had he done to deserve this?

Not wanting to pry, Dovahkiin deviated away from the tent, pacing back and forth to warm himself. He could have called it a day and returned to his own tent to try and catch up with his sleep, but he wouldn't leave until he was sure Arya was completely trough her business with her former lover. Not her grief, of course – that would take time to heal. But he would at least make her release all that bottled up emotions she had been holding for Divines know how long.

He was beginning to seriously consider shouting Clear Skies to get rid of the annoying downpour. It would alert and wake up every single being in the area, but hey, rest of the world be damned, and plus he'd done more than enough to compensate. Then the air pressure seemed to drop, making his eardrums pop. A slight static coursed through the area and he knew what that meant – the ghost had departed.

He rushed back into the tent. Arya was there, his back to him, facing the shelf as if it was the most interesting thing in Mundus. He was one hundred per cent sure she had heard him enter – he wasn't being exactly quiet, what with the splashing boots and all. She didn't acknowledge his presence, though, so after a while, he spoke.

"Are you well?"

It was the sort of imbecilic question that usually got him throttled. Of course she was not well. It was more than a little obvious.

"I wish to be alone. Leave." Her voice was strained and had a forced ring to it, almost as if she was not a being, but a machine. Sudden ire coursed through his veins.

"No."

He paced forward, bringing himself closer, until he could reach her.

"Get out!" She commanded.

"No!", he said again. "I did _not_ go out there and risk my hide so you could return to your tent and keep being miserable!"

Screw courtesy, delicacy and any sort of social rule. He grasped her by the shoulder and swung roughly, making her face him. He could see trails of tears on her face. Without giving her time to react, he pulled her in a fierce hug.

She flailed, but he was already expecting it. She let off a stream of unladylike words he would never expect her to know and struggled, hitting her arms against his side with strength that would certainly leave bruises. She shoved her feet on his own, so hard the boot caved in and the pain on his feet told him he must have broken a couple toes.

He held her still.

He was used to wrestling down dragons and he'd be damned if he couldn't hold an elf down. It was only when she brought her knee up dangerously close to his sensitive areas that he growled, "Divines, woman, don't make me Shout on you!"

That seemed to get through her, and she stopped struggling. "See? It is all much better when you act civil -"

And then he almost wished she had kept fighting, because suddenly her body shook and she began to sob. He half panicked on spot. _What in Oblivion do I do now?! _ Dragons, he could handle. Bandits? Piece of cake. Giant accursed Hiricine wolves? Bring it on. But a weeping woman? _Mara enlighten me!_

Gently, ever so gently, he led her to the bed where he helped her sit. He placed himself right next to her, her side touching his own – he could feel her shake convulsively. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, bringing her closer. And then, because he was just so absolutely clueless on what to do, he begun blabbering.

"Have I ever told you about that time I married a Hagraven?"

He didn't know how long they stayed like that, but eventually her sobbing subsided into sniffling and then into weeping. She had long given up any sort of physical resistance - every time she tried to get away, he'd just stubbornly pull her close again; Now she just rested her head in his chest in what he assumed must be a comfortable position for her. Her eyes were closed, but he could still see the stream of tears coming out of it.

"Why?" she blurted out suddenly when his tongue was already dry from speaking and his muscles were beginning to feel stiff. What had he been talking about? He hadn't been paying attention. He focused.

"Well, what else could I do? I couldn't very well have a talking dog following me around."

"That's not what I'm talking about", she said irritated. She opened her eyes and he let her striking green irises catch his own blue. Little red veins were evidenced against the white of her orbs and her whole face was puffy from weeping.

"Why are you so persistent about me?"

He frowned. He wasn't too sure himself. Because he liked helping people, because the way she was always depressed upset him, because he thought she could use a friend. It was just the sort of thing he would do.

"Because I'm the man that does the dangerous things no one else will, remember? Like hunting down dragons. Or befriending the local psychotic elf."

Her lips twisted in an almost smile, then it was gone as she spoke.

"And do you not mind having a psychotic elf as a friend?"

He snorted. "Out of my four best friends, one lives solely on human blood. The other prefers human hearts, and the third could probably steal all your inner organs without you even noticing. What's a mad knife-ear near that?"

She frowned. "Is the fourth friend normal?"

As opposed to Roran, she seemed to focus in everything _but_ the actual point of his sentences. She went out in every single possible tangent.

"He is, I suppose. He likes to do some burning down and pillaging, but that's within normal dragon behavior, I guess."

"One of your best friends is a dragon? I wonder how it goes when you meet for tea."

The idea of him, Aela, Serana, Brynjolf and Odahviing on the same room, sharing sweetrolls and speaking about banalities was one so bizarre it made him chuckle.

"You tell me. What happens when you, Saphira and Eragon spend some quality time together?"

She considered that for a couple seconds. "We fend off enemy armies, mostly."

He laughed again. "You work too much, little elf."

"There is too much work to be done."

"You don't have to do it all. Just leave it. Someone will do it, eventually, and if they don't, then it's just not that important."

It sounded hypocritical coming from the one who would go out of his way to fetch Balimund some fire salts or bring Ysolda a mammoth tusk or return the Golden Claw to Camilla Valerius or generally do every single menial task a citizen would ask of him, but Arya needn't to know that.

"Like that report of yours. What if you decided to just not do it? Imagine all the free time you would get."

"And what, pray tell, would I do in that free time?"

It did not surprise him that she simply had no notion of 'fun'.

"I don't know. Get a hobby, or do something with a friend. Anything but sitting depressed and alone in grief."

She didn't reply.

"Here," he said, joining his hands in an odd position. "How about you learn the detaching thumbs trick? Like this, see? Bet you can't do that."

He moved one of his hands up, appearing to remove the end of his own thumb. He moved the hand back and then up again, seemingly attaching then detaching the finger. She eyed him wonderingly, as if questioning his mental abilities.

"Or you could play the lute," he suggested, remembering the instrument in her shelf.

"I don't play. It belongs – it _belonged _to Glenwing."

The way she flinched when she said the name made him assume the person must be one of her dead friends.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked softly.

"Do I want to talk about it? Why would I possibly _want_ that?" she said enraged, stiffening and moving out of his embrace.

Before she could get up, he lunged forward and grabbed her, bringing her back to his side again. She hissed in fury and frustration. She might be as physically able as a Dragon Priest, but he was bigger, heavier and altogether more capable when it came down to brute strength.

The one way to escape his manhandling was to pull out her sword and engage him in combat, and while Dovahkiin did not doubt she would have done it in a different situation, at the moment she was too physically and emotionally strained to do anything besides being irate. He growled at her resistance. She was so damn difficult.

"Because it's killing you inside, that's why!" He barked.

"And what makes you think I have not already talked about it with someone else?" She snarled back at him.

"Your depressive attitude, maybe? It doesn't matter if you have, because if you did, whoever you told did a pathetic job out of listening!"

He expected a hard comeback for that, perhaps even a physical blow. Instead, she leaned forward, resting her elbows in her knees, and placed her face on her hands. He hugged her again, and felt her sigh in resignation. Her eyes were closed, but he could see she was weeping again. He waited in silence for her to rebuild herself.

Eventually, she leaned back against his chest and begun speaking, sounding very tired.

"When -" her voice broke. He let her take her time. She drew in a deep breath and tried again. "When Glen and Lin – when they fell, I thought I surely would, too. Somehow, I managed to escape the Shade's hold long enough to send Saphira's egg away. "

A Shade. He had been so damn arrogant. He still didn't know what it was, but if it managed to best her and two warriors of equal value, then he had been very wrong in underestimating it. And even if it still likely _wasn't_ as bad as a Vampire Lord, his attitude had been just plain insensitive.

"And then they took me, and they tried to take information from me -" She halted. He placed his chin on top of her head, letting it rest there reassuringly.

"Your god – Hircine. He knew, didn't he? He knew it all. Sometimes, the Shade would tire and let the men have their way with me, but my mind was strong enough to divert them."

She felt her shiver under his arms. Not every nightmare was Vaermina's, not every disease was Peryte's and not every rape was Molag's, but he hated the Prince twice as hard all the same. He let his hand drop from her shoulder, and grasped her own hand instead. Their fingers intertwined, and he gave it a reassuring squeeze.

"The Shade eventually found out."

_Ah, Divines._

"Little elf - Arya. I'm so sorry. I had no idea."

"Hence the asking, wasn't it?" she snapped. _Ouch_. He deserved that one. She sighed again.

Dovahkiin knew nothing he said would make it better. All he could do was hope that by making her talk about it, he had aided her somehow. And despite her words, he very much doubted she had told anyone before him, at least not the whole thing – and the one reason she had actually spoken about it was that she was aware that even if she didn't, Hircine's words had already revealed him the whole truth.

"And since you are here now, and people call Eragon 'Shadeslayer', I assume the Shade is dead by his hands?" He inquired instead, changing subjects.

"You assume correctly. He rescued me form my confinement and later slew the creature."

So maybe the boy wasn't so bad after all. He liked her, and he was decent in battle and seemingly heroic, despite being a complete ass. Dovahkiin would still prefer Faölin, but if she wanted, he might let Eragon have her. Maybe.

He didn't even bother to tell himself how absurd that sounded.

"Pity. I was looking forward to having its head." She said nothing. He rubbed his chin back and forth on her head, effectively messing her hair up. "I could still Shout the place to the ground, though."

She kept silent. "Or," he raised his free hand and tugged playfully on a stray lock of her raven black hair, "I could bring out my army of dragons and we could raze it from the skies. How about that, eh? "

He was only half jesting. He felt her finally relax under his grip. "I wouldn't say no to that."

He smiled. "You might meet my lieutenant one day. He would find your dragons really funny, what with the extra limbs and the lack of speech."

He had succeeded in teasing her curiosity.

"What do you mean?" she questioned.

"Back home, dragons don't have four legs. Their front limbs _are _the wings. And they speak. Through their mouths."

She raised her face, knocking his head off her own.

"You are teasing me." She said with narrowed eyes.

"I swear I'm not!" He replied with a half smile.

His eyes drifted though the tent and he spotted something that made the smile turn into a grin. A ray of sunshine.

"Hey , look, little elf! It's already morning!"

She shot him a quizzical look, not understanding the importance of his statement.

"Isn't your mother the queen or something?" he continued, bemused, "I bet she'll love to hear you spent the night with a soldier. And ah, just wait until Eragon hears of it!"

Finally, she got what he was implying and jumped off his arms, sitting up quickly. "Shit!"

He was laughing out loud now. "I bet the boy has been giving you flowers all that time and -" He stopped to catch his breath, "And all you really wanted was a good old manhandling!"

"You _bastard_!" She shoved him off the bed and down in the ground, but there was a playful note in her voice that told him she was amused, too.

"I _knew _it!" he gasped from down there, "All that time I've always wondered how could elven women like their man so _effeminate -_"

"Elven men are not-!"

"But in the end all they really wanted was a big -"

"Colin!" she censored, making him fall back into laughter again.

"Oh, when I come out of this tent I'll be a _hero!_ It's even better to my reputation than wrestling a dragon -"

"We did nothing!" she growled.

"Does it matter? You know that's not what everyone will think, even if we both say so."

"Couldn't you sneak out?" she pleaded.

Of course he could.

"Oh, I don't know. I think you must have broken some toes of mine, there."

"_Please?_"

He sat up and eyed her seriously. "Only if you promise me something."

"What do you want?"

"Promise me you won't stay sulking alone anymore. You'll look for me or Saphira or Eragon or even Nasuada, but you won't stay self-hating in a dark corner."

She turned her head away from him and for a long moment, he thought she would say no. He was very willing to push her around for it.

"Someone will come in here eventually, you know. The courier, maybe. I've heard those kids love some gossip." He urged.

"Fine!" she relented. He wasn't satisfied.

"Swear it."

"I swear", she said in an oddly accented Ehlnofex and he felt a ring of magic in the words. He smiled to let her know it was enough.

Dovahkiin took off his ruined boots and threw them, one to each side, splattering mud through the room, just because he knew she was obsessed with order. He saw her fingers twitch, but she did not move from her sitting position, and he knew she was just being stubborn. He wagered she would pick up the boots and clean the place the very second she saw him leave.

Dovahkiin cast a healing spell, fixing his foot and some of the bruises she had given him. It had been a rough night, however, and he was feeling the weight of exhaustion on his shoulders. He wriggled his fingers, testing them. He got up and walked to a corner, letting his bare foot touch the shadows and preparing to quietly sneak out. He turned to her one last time.

"Stay out of trouble, little elf!"

And then, without making a sound, he was gone.

_**Whew. There you are. Sorry for the delay, but as stated before, I was in a family trip.**_

_**I got an amazing number of reviews last chapter and I would like to thank you all very much for your support. Also thanks for the ones who PM'ed me with suggestions! Those are great and help me enormously. I had no idea this would be such a big hit when I started it and I'm just really glad you like it.**_

_**This chapter was especially delicate, because I had to deal with both Daedric Princes, which are always difficult to figure out, and Arya in an awkward situation, which gives great space for me to accidentally make her out of character. I had a lot of trouble figuring out how exactly would they contact Hircine, then it occurred to me, why not fighting a giant wolf? And there you have it.**_

_** I also wanted to show a bit of Sheogorath's side as the Hero of Kvatch, which is sort of implied but never really confirmed in Skyrim - of course, it would not be possible, considering every player has their own version of the Hero and all. But everyone has their own Dragonborn too, and since this is a story and not a game, I thought, hey, why not? **_

_**Next chapter might take a bit longer because I passed on the first university test ( hooray!) and thus I now have to study for the second ( un-hooray). Plus there is the little issue on how I have absolutely no idea on what to do the next chapter. I'm stuck between sending him on Saphira to meet the dwarves, and later on, Oromis and Glaedr, or leave him sitting at camp, making trouble for Nasuada.**_

_** I'm more inclined towards the former. I bet the Dragonborn would be very amused with the 'little people'. It would also mean he would eventually have to fly with Eragon, and those two sure do have bones to pick with one another.**_

_**That's it, I guess. Special acknowledgments to ShadowedFang, my beta!**_

_**Thanks for reading!**_


	12. Chapter 11

"You are cheating."

"I am not!"

Dovahkiin scowled at an indignant Angela. He was not, in fact, cheating. Not actively, anyway. He reached out to the centre of the circle and grabbed his absolutely honest earnings, then handed his runes to the next dealer, Arya.

"I still cannot believe you've put me up to this," The elf grumbled under her breath.

"You are having fun!"

"I'm losing money, that's what," She snapped as she handed him a couple stones for the next round.

She was, indeed, losing money. He had borrowed from her a hundred gold coins to wager at the beginning of the game, under the solemn promise he would pay her back. She had reluctantly lent him the money, and so far, he had not only repaid her but also recovered more than twice the value.

They had played a few rounds without betting as the three women explained him the rules, then begun the real thing. Runes, as it was called, was a game of chance and strategy, and while Dovahkiin was not too bad a strategist, what he really outshined in was sheer luck.

He turned his attention back to the game, realizing it was his turn. With a quick sweep of his eyes, he noticed Elva was currently winning. Dovahkiin cursed – the one way to surpass her would be to chance upon the Serpent stone, and amongst the sixty four pieces that composed the game, only one had the rune he needed. He reached into the satchel –

His mouth twisted in a toothy smile as he turned the rune over for all to see. The Serpent.

"You _are _cheating. Through which nefarious, elusive means, I do not know, but I intend to find out." Angela vowed.

"Am not!" He repeated for the umpteenth time that day.

"Yes, yes you are." Arya accused from his side.

He put his hands in his chest and dramatically feigned pain.

"To think you would have such low opinion of me… you wound me, Little Elf. I thought you would trust me more after last night!"

He punctuated his sentence by wriggling his brows up and down suggestively. Arya sighed and rubbed her temples.

"I was not jesting when I said you would drill a hole to your brain, Little Elf. You have to break this habit - it is becoming unhealthy."

"Why do I tolerate you, Colin?" She snarled.

"Loneliness", said Elva with a neutral tone.

"Love!" suggested Angela excitedly.

"No choice?" He offered.

"Elva, there are other much less aggravating people I could befriend if I were feeling lonely. Angela, that is just outrageous."

She turned to him, looking genuinely thoughtful.

"Had your attitude belonged to anyone else, I would not talk to them for weeks, maybe even months, _especially_ after last night. I cannot understand why it should be different with you."

"What did the two of you actually do last night?" Angela inquired.

"Nothing," he said, because it would take too long to explain and, besides, the events were still too fresh in his mind for him to talk freely about them.

Apparently, Arya shared his opinion, because she said it, too. Unfortunately, they ended up saying the exact same thing at the exact same time, giving an incredibly suspicious impression that they were trying to hide something. Angela raised a skeptical eyebrow at them, and he decided it'd be better to clarify.

"We went hunting" he blurted out.

"We talked" she said, and again their words were timed together.

Angela's other eyebrow went up. He cleared his throat to let Arya know he was about to speak, in order to avoid complicating his situation even more.

"We talked…while we hunted", he said awkwardly, realizing how stupid it sounded.

"And I can imagine all the prey you caught by doing that," Angela replied, her tone dripping with irony, then eyed Arya fiercely.

"I thought you didn't hunt? Particularly not for sport?"

"Ah …"

The elf gave her a blank face, and Dovahkiin put on his own clueless look to accompany Arya's. Angela looked from one of them to the other, then threw her hands up in the air, frustrated.

"Fine! Keep your romantic evening a secret! I can live without all the juicy details."

"We did _not -_" Arya began, only to be interrupted by the witch.

"Why do you tolerate him, then?"

"I don't know! He is the cockiest, most infantile -"

"Good looking", He added.

"See? That is precisely what I am talking about. By all right means, I should be avoiding him now, if only because he is such an imbecile."

"You've tried that, remember? If I recall correctly, your first words to me today were 'How in the name of the Menoa do you keep finding me?'"

"And _how_ in the name of the Menoa do you keep finding me, anyway?"

He tapped a finger to his head. "Inbuilt women detector."

Dovahkiin narrowly dodged a flying runestone thrown by the elf.

"I should draw my sword on you," Arya hissed.

"You know you would lose." He teased.

"_I_ would lose? I have a hundred years experience, plus the strength of an elf."

"You're a hundred years old?! You are old enough to be my grandmother! Divines, you are probably old enough to be Draugr!"

He could never get over how long elves lived.

"_Excuse me?_ Elves mature differently, just so you know. In practical terms, I am not much older than… how old are you again? Maturity-wise, I'd guess eleven or twelve."

"I am twenty-four, thank you very much. Based on _your_ behavior, I would give you… at least a hundred, indeed. A friend of mine is four thousand years old and extraordinarily less grouchy."

Angela burst out laughing, and he realized the two witches were probably very amusedly watching them bicker. "I'm sure you keep interesting company," Angela commented, and her words jolted him into memory.

_ "I am sorry I was of no help," Serana said as she dragged him from the frozen lake and towards the Word Wall._

_"That's no matter, Serana, I know vampires and fire don't mix -" His words were stopped by a fit of coughing. He spat out blood and, cursing, cast a healing spell. Serana visibly cringed._

_"I am sorry" she apologized again, guiltily, "That I cannot heal you."_

_"No worries, Serana, I know vampires and restorative magic don't mix, either."_

_He sat on the steps that led to the wall, hearing the whispers of knowledge that waited to be unlocked. He closed his eyes and attempted to catch his breath; he heard Serana sit next to him. Below them, on the surface of the frozen lake, laid the skeletons of the twin dragons, Naaslaarum and Voslaarum._

_"You were amazing back there," She commented. "Pity I cannot say the same about myself."_

_Her tone was unusually bitter, making him open his eyes. He examined her carefully. He tried very hard to hide his identity as Dragonborn, if only because he desired some peace. He succeeded, mostly, and all around Skyrim, the true name of the hero who saved them all and who constantly aided them was a mystery._

_ Very few people knew the truth - The Circle and The Nightingales, the Jarls and those who had been there when he slain Mirmulnir, and of course, The Blades. His decision to hide he was Dragonborn had came after the Greybeards hailed him Ysmir, and when confronted about it, those who knew the truth had agreed to keep quiet._

_ Serana had discovered his secret when they confronted Durnehviir in the Soul Cairn, and he had made her swear that she would not get anywhere close when he fought dragons – her weakness to fire would put her at high risks. _

_He knew her unusually sullen look meant she was feeling useless for being unable to help. He honestly didn't mind – the dragon issue was his and only his to deal with, and that included both the undead variety and the twins by the lake. Dovahkiin knew she was concerned about his wellbeing, though whether because she genuinely cared or because she had no one else to aid her, he was unsure. He honestly hoped for the former._

_ He hated to make her worry, but to his defense, he had never expected to be caught in such extreme situation, either – fighting two dragons at the same time had definitely not been in his plans. When the two erupted from the frozen surface, he had told her to stay out of it, and fortunately, she had heeded his command – she was very well aware of her flammable nature._

_ He decided to let her know just how much he appreciated her company. He put his hand in hers and felt the unnatural cool of her skin - it did not bother him, however. Nords were naturally resistant to cold. She turned to him and bore her orange-gold vampiric eyes on his sky-blue ones._

_Her eyes were the only notable feature that distinguished her as a vampire. Oddly enough, she had not suffered the facial twists that marked the others of her kind. Her cheeks were narrowed and her skin, pale, but not aberrantly so; her nose did not resemble a bat's, unlike that of most humans-gone-vampire. Most importantly, she lacked the deep crimson line that ran from the bottom of the nose to the chin- the telltale sign of a bloodsucker._

_Even her fangs were only slightly longer and sharper than normal. He could not help but think she had adapted unusually well to the 'gift' of undeath. It might just be her inadvertently gripping him with her Vampire's seduction, but Dovahkiin found her almost beautiful – only her eyes broke the picture._

_ If not for her eyes, Serana would have been perfectly…human._

_"You know, Serana, you've made me rethink my ways." He said, breaking the silence._

_She looked at him, half with suspicion and half with curiosity. "How so?"_

_"I am no longer guiltless on my tomb raids. Every time I face a Draugr, I cannot help but wonder, 'This could be a friend of Serana's!'. It is disturbing indeed."_

_She scowled. "Ha-ha-ha. Very funny."_

_"Worry not, Serana Volkihar, you are remarkably better preserved than most ancient undead, your friends included."_

_"And your breath smells remarkably better than that of most dragons, your friends included, Colin Dragonborn."_

_He laughed cheerfully at her comeback._

_ "Come on, I must learn that word and we have a jug to fill. Will you carry it?"_

_"It's always Serana, carry this, Serana, carry that. Why am I always the one to lug the weight around? What happened to your chivalry?"_

_He got up, still chuckling, and offered her his hand. She helped herself up, then picked up the jug. Dovahkiin took it from her hands and emulated the distant, empty look one usually saw on vampire thralls._

_"Here, mistress, I shall carry this burden for you. It is a dangerous path ahead, but worry not! I would fight off armies of the undead for you, mistress. Even if one of them was a dragon. Alas! Even dragons I would take on for you, mistress, be it one or maybe two. Simultaneously. "_

_She smiled, and he knew he had succeeded in lifting her mood. "Come on, you fool. We have a bow to recover."_

His throat constricted as he realized just how much he missed her. He decided the moment he got back to Skyrim, he would seek her out and apologize, even if he was with reason. He cared about her too much to keep the grudge going.

"Interesting indeed," he replied blandly.

The three seemed to notice the sudden souring of his mood. Elva sent him a meaningful look.

"But, you know, Colin is not really cheating," The witch child declared, changing subjects, "And he is in fact the only one."

Dovahkiin smiled. The girl knew exactly the right thing to say.

"I am not cheating!" Protested Arya and Angela simultaneously.

"Oh, _please_." She replied, rolling her eyes.

"Seriously_?_" He said in mock fury, then turned to Arya, glaring. "Angela and Elva I expected, but you? Even you, Little Elf?"

He waited for some sort of cutting answer, but instead, her only reply was an absolutely mischievous grin. The act of smiling, especially in such a carefree, _happy_ way was so unusual coming from her, it took him a whole five seconds to process it and when he finally came to, Elva was already dealing the new round.

He realized he had been thrown completely off guard, which was probably exactly what she had wanted. _Well played, Little Elf, well played._ He knew she was good at hiding her emotions, but he didn't expect her to be good in showing them when convenient, too. Still, he couldn't help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, he was finally getting through to her.

He pointed his index and middle fingers to his eyes and then to her, the universal I'm-watching-you gesture. She let her lips curl in a faint smirk.

As it turned out, she was the one who watched him, very furiously, as he pocketed the winnings of his seventeenth-in-a-row victory.

"This is getting beyond ridiculous," Arya complained.

"I'm just lucky," He replied innocently - it was the truth, after all.

"There is no way someone can possibly be this lucky," she retaliated.

_Just do odd jobs to Nocturnal every other week._

Dovahkiin really was the closest thing one could be to a Nightingale without giving his soul away. He had been serving Nocturnal for long - ever since his first business with the Thieves Guild, he had been an endless source of entertainment to the Prince. He could be considered, as Brynjolf had so eloquently put it, 'Nocturnal's favorite errand boy.'

She would send him to fetch rings in bandit-filled caves, even though one could buy the _exact_ same thing from the market. She would make him go all the way to Blackreach to get some Crimson Ninroot, and _What in Oblivion does she need that for?!_ She would send him in a thousand highly dangerous, completely meaningless quests, without any explanation.

Even so, Dovahkiin knew this attention was highly unusual behavior coming from her – it was widely known that Nocturnal had no real interest in worshipers, asides from her Nightingales. He assumed the particular favor she bestowed upon him had much to do with his position as Akatosh's champion, which seemed to make him some sort of Daedra magnet.

On the other hand, Nocturnal had watched over him even before he took his place as Dragonborn, which led him to think she might have other reasons. With her, he would just never know.

One way or the other, his good relationship with the Prince was one he prized very much and strived to maintain – which was why he unquestioningly did her bidding every time. It was very worth it – Nocturnal's favor had saved his life more than once. And, of course, he always won gambling games.

"There is this old saying back home that goes, 'Never play cards with a Nightingale.' I might not be a Nightingale, but I'm certainly close to it." He said finally.

"Isn't a nightingale some kind of thrush? How is a dragon any close to that? " Arya asked, making him laugh.

"That is not exactly what I meant – I need to instruct you in my world's culture, Little Elf."

Before she could ask what, exactly, he had meant, Angela got up abruptly, clapping her hands. The other three turned their attention to her. She walked towards one of the multiple chests in the tent and begun searching for something.

"I just remembered!" She said, as she went through her belongings. "After I met you, Colin, I decided maybe I should pay a visit to old Tenga."

His interest immediately tripled as he remembered Tenga as the man from Cyrodiil, who was not only a link to his world but also possibly the reason he was in Alagaesia in first place. Elva seemed just as interested, while Arya just looked in puzzled manner from one of them to another.

"And?" He prodded eagerly.

"Just as mad as always, but -" She stopped, reaching for something. He heard loud clanging noises as she shoved things from place to place. "I managed to, ah, borrow this."

She held up the item for him to inspect. Hanging from an old, worn out pendant, there was a familiar hammer-like shape he immediately recognized.

"An amulet of Talos!"

Dovahkiin could use that. He could use that very, very much.

"A what now?" Angela asked as she approached them. She sat down back into the circle and raised it for all of them to see.

"Amulet of Talos. Can I have it?" He asked eagerly.

Angela pulled the amulet back, away from his reach. "Calm down there, handsome. What does it do?"

"To you, nothing."

One of the main arguments of the Thalmor in their persistent persecution of Talos was the fact that while other Divines' blessings could clearly be felt, the blessing of Talos had no visible effect. That was not true, Dovahkiin knew – it affected the Thu'um, making shouting much easier. Of course, very little people could testify to that effect, none of which the Thalmor would take into consideration.

Which was why it was extremely odd that this man, Tenga, would have one. Asides from the very rare Tongues, who could actually feel the amulet's effects, only the most devoted followers of Talos worn the amulet, especially in the face of the Thalmor inquisition. And this man, if he recalled correctly, was not a Nord, but an Imperial.

"I recall you saying Tenga was from Cyrodiil?" Dovahkiin asked, puzzled.

"It is what he told me – Is there any matter?"

He shook his head thoughtfully, "Talos worship was outlawed by the White-Gold concordat, and though it persists, it is mostly in Skyrim. It is unlikely that one would worship Talos in the heart of the Empire, where elven inquisition is strongest."

At that moment, they were interrupted by the tent flapping open and the entrance of a cat. It had shaggy black fur and its eyes seemed to change color as he watched. The cat was bigger than usual and there was something about it that kept Dovahkiin on edge. He realized what it was when Arya greeted the animal.

"Solembum," The elf said with a nod of acknowledgment.

He remembered the name from the night before and immediately understood the beast was actually a werecat.

"Hircine watch over your steps," he greeted.

Arya eyed him sharply, and then quickly did a visual check in the room. Dovahkiin considered telling her the Prince would not appear just by mentioning his name. Asides from their moment of closeness the night before, they had not yet discussed the fateful events of their adventure but, even so, he could guess the word 'Hircine' was probably not among her favorites.

_"And Akatosh watch over yours, Dragonborn" _ the cat replied in his mind.

How in Oblivion did he know that?

"How -"

_"The werecats have not forgotten about the tales of old. Did you think your Voice would go unnoticed? Did you think we would not have felt the presence of our Prince?"_

There was no proper answer he could give to that – he hadn't even considered the matter - so he just stood there, looking sheepish. The cat's words only increased his suspicions that this world and his own were somehow connected.

"How did this world come to be?" he questioned abruptly.

_"It is a long story that involves Aedra, Daedra, a feud, pieces of Nirn and a dying god."_

"Like Lorkhan," he said excitedly.

_"To create a world, sacrifices must be made. But, that is a tale for another day - maybe."_

And with that, the cat curled up in a corner and promptly fell asleep – or pretended to. Dovahkiin stifled his unsatisfied curiosity; the truth would eventually come out. He noticed he was being watched by the three women.

"Either you have gone absolutely mad," Angela spoke slowly, "Or Solembum was talking to you."

"He was," Dovahkiin said, defending his sanity.

"I suppose it means I have to offer you a reading." The witch said thoughtfully.

"A reading?"

"Of your future."

Dovahkiin literally jumped to his feet, sending pieces of the game flying around.

"Oh, Oblivion _no!_ All I don't need is another damn prophecy. I've had enough of those for more than a lifetime!"

Then a thought occurred to him.

"How about you give me that amulet of Talos instead?"

Angela rolled her eyes and extended her hand to him.

"Here, take it, I'll just leave it cluttered in a chest anyway. Now, you were saying something about prophecies…?"

He smirked as he took the amulet and placed it around his neck. There was no immediate change – he would only sense the effects of Talos' blessings when he Shouted. Angela was still expecting an answer, so he spoke.

"Trust me, ma'am, I've read The Elder Scrolls so many times that by all right means, I should be blind and mad."

"You've seen an Elder Scroll? I've heard they come in beautiful cases!"

Her knowledge about the Scrolls did not surprise him, somehow.

"Incredibly heavy cases, that's what. I've read not one, but three of them, one of which I've read twice. Gave me migraines for weeks."

"Amazing! Where did you find them?"

"One with a friend, other with her mother. The other, inside a gigantic dwemer ruin. It took me at least two hours of randomly pressing buttons to finally get the receptacle open."

Dovahkiin would have loved to sit down again and continue their conversation and games, maybe even make them some tea and sweetrolls, but that was when Elva said the two words that could send him running.

"Nasuada approaches", the girl announced casually.

Nasuada. He still hadn't seen her after his arrival from the mission, which meant she had more than one bone to pick with him – his fire breathing, his defying Edric's orders and last but not least his fight with Saphira. And she didn't even know about the previous night's events.

Dovahkiin doubted Arya would tell Nasuada anything about their adventure – it was none of her business anyway. But that was only the cherry to the cake of trouble he had been baking since his arrival to the Varden, and if the leader even as much as caught a glimpse of him, she would talk his ear off for _hours_.

"Shit! Angela, please tell me you have a back exit."

The very idea of a back exit when they were sitting in a tent was laughable. And, of course, Angela had one. Before he could hush out, however, the flaps opened and Nasuada came in. He just barely had time to duck behind a chest before the woman's voice sounded.

"Greetings, Angela, Elva… Arya. I did not expect to see you here."

"We were enjoying a game of Runes," Angela said sharply, clearly annoyed to have their conversation cut short. "Any reason for this interruption?"

"Angela, I've came to you because I'll need your services in healing -"

"Fine. Anything else?"

Dovahkiin could almost feel Nasuada frown in distaste. He bit his tongue to avoid cursing. He could see the exit. All he needed was a distraction to make sure she wasn't looking.

"Yes, actually, I have been looking for you, Arya."

"Aye? In what may I be of use?"

"I was wondering if you know of Colin's whereabouts. He has been avoiding me since his return and there is much I must discuss with him, including his completely irresponsible attitude -"

"And why, pray tell, would I know that?" The elf replied curtly.

Dovahkiin risked a peek and saw Nasuada shrug. She had her side to him, and he would surely be seen if he went for the exit.

"He seems to have taken quite a liking to you," The leader said.

"Well I haven't taken any liking to him. He is the cockiest, most infantile –"

Oh, he would _so_ get back at her for that. _Just wait for it, Little Elf._

"You need an even number to play Runes", Nasuada suddenly pointed out.

_Ah, shit. _ It was the reason he had gone to fetch Arya in first place – Runes could not be played if the amount of players was odd. And, to Nasuada, there were only three people in the tent. Which of course implied a missing fourth player.

"You are right! Silly us." Angela exclaimed. "Why don't you join us, then?"

He heard grunting and turned to take another look. Angela was shoving Nasuada down on the place he previously occupied, which gave him an opening. Quickly, with a silent roll, he reached the back exit and sneaked out.

The sunlight momentarily blinded him and he brought up his arm to shield his eyes. Looking around, he saw the usual camp activity - soldiers walking back and forth. No one seemed to have noticed him, so he strolled away from the tent naturally.

He hadn't been walking for long when he realized he had just nothing to do. Back in Skyrim, he hardly experienced the sheer boredom he was feeling. When he wasn't busy doing contracts for the Companions or the Guild, he would put on his cloak and, hiding his face, adventure out as the Dragonborn.

When he took on the role of the hero, he would hunt down dragons, delve into dungeons and crypts and generally come to the help of the populace** – **recovering heirlooms, rescuing friends and family members and clearing out roads. From restoring the Gildergreen to fetching a mammoth tusk, there was nothing he wouldn't do.

He would never speak a word, which only added to the mystery – rumor was that, like the Greybeards, the Dragonborn could not risk talking. In truth, he did not speak in fear one might recognize his voice, so he refrained to nods and gestures. Hiding his identity, he later discovered, was a rather wise choice – not only it provided him with the opportunity to live a reasonably normal life, it also meant the Thalmor did not know whom to hunt.

He realized he had been walking aimlessly. He looked around, trying to find something, anything to _do_. It wasn't like there weren't any activities available – it was just that engaging in one of them would require going through such bureaucracy, he was put off just by thinking about it.

He was, for instance, a fairly decent smith, and though he preferred keeping to light armor, he could work metal all the way up to ebony. He was not as good as Adrianne Avenicci or Eorlund Gray-Mane, who dedicated their lives to the trade, but unless he was going against unnaturally powerful creatures, his skill was more than enough.

Likewise, his activities as a thief and adventurer forced him into alchemy and he could brew both potions and poisons with uncanny efficiency. He still ended up having to taste some ingredients sometimes, but he had progressed into a point that eating a giant's toe to figure out its properties was fortunately no longer necessary.

He could therefore be useful by crafting weapons, armors and potions to the Varden. But it wasn't like he could simply casually walk to the forge or to the laboratory like he did in Whiterun. No, he would have to inform Nasuada of his skills then wait for the equipment to be made available for him. And there was always the risk that the woman would task him to these activities permanently, which he most certainly did not want.

"What the – shit!"

He swore as he fell face first on the ground. He was so focused or rather, so distracted, he had tripped on something as he walked. A loud growl followed by his turning around showed him that the something was, in fact, Saphira's tail he had stumbled upon.

_"Who dares -?"_

"_Drem Yol Lok, Dovah. _My apologies for rousing you. _Krosis_. _Zu'u_ _lost_ _sizaan kotin_ _hahdrimi_, I was lost in my mind."

_"Oh, it is you." _ She yawned, half roaring as she did.

_ "Greetings, Dovahkiin. What troubles you?"_

He pushed himself into a sitting position, and Saphira turned in order to face him.

"_Vovahrukt_. Forget it – it is nothing relevant." He took in a better look and could tell the dragon was rather downcast.

"You seem quite unhappy yourself, _Dovah_. " He pointed out.

_"It is Eragon. I know some evil has befallen him, and I long to join him."_

If Dovahkiin recalled correctly, the boy was away with the little people - the dwarves. It was odd for him to call them dwarves, for back in his Tamriel the word referred to the Dwemer, and everything about their ruins indicated they were normal sized. Serana had once told him the dwarves were called that because of an encounter with giants who saw them as short, and that in fact, they were basically elves with beards.

"_Yah rok._ Seek him. Why don't you go, then?"

_"Nasuada has required me to stay."_

"_Ful_?So?"

Saphira snorted, making smoke go out through her nostrils. _"I have agreed to stay, to defend the Varden in case Thorn and Murtagh return."_

Dovahkiin doubted the red dragon and his rider would be back anytime soon. Not only he had hit the poor beast with Dragonrend, which was extremely traumatic, he had also claimed the three dragon souls the rider carried with him. No, they would not approach the Varden until the king had more information on the new foe – the Dragonborn. It would be strategically unwise to send them to face the rebels before that.

He was about to voice his thoughts when Saphira spoke.

_"Greetings, Nasuada."_

"Oh you have _got_ to be kidding me!", he exclaimed, jumping to his feet.

"Greetings, Saphira. A pleasure to see you as well, Colin."

He looked back to see Nasuada approach, and almost smacked himself for not paying attention to his surroundings. Now he'd have to hear her whine. Just his luck, too, that she would go to the exact same place he chose to stop and take a break. He must have irritated Nocturnal by abusing his good fortune when gambling.

"Saphira, I must speak to you in private," She shot Dovahkiin the evil eye, "And to you as well, Colin, but that will have to wait. Can you reach into my mind and remain there, so you can hear my thoughts?"

Her words were followed by silence, so he assumed Saphira had heeded her command. He would have made use of the opportunity to quietly sneak away, but Nasuada, sensing his intentions, placed herself directly in front of him, blocking his way. He resisted the urge to _Fus-Ro-Dah _her to Oblivion.

Abruptly, the dragon arched her neck and roared toward the sky, breathing fire upon the skies. She rose to her feet and shook herself from head to tail. The only explanation to her sudden happiness was that Nasuada had allowed her to rejoin her rider, so Dovahkiin assumed that was what they were talking about. For another while, Nasuada seemed to converse with Saphira while the dragon kept perfectly still.

He could tell Saphira was impatient, for she shifted her stance, raising her wings even higher. Then Nasuada bode her farewell and turned her attentions back to him.

"And you, Colin, will accompany me to my tent, for we have much to discuss."

He glowered. Who did she think she was, giving him orders like that? He was doing her a favor by helping in this war, not the other way round. She had no right to boss him around, and the way she did so was beyond annoying – it almost reminded him of…

He had a wicked thought and smirked. He raised a hand in a theatrical ceremonial stance and cleared his throat.

"Nasuada Nightstalker, by the powers given to me as Dragonborn, head of The Blades, I hereby grant you the title of…" He paused dramatically, "Delphine the Second!"

Nasuada frowned. "Who is Delphine?"

"A woman who, much like yourself, had no notion whatsoever of who was aiding whom."

Her frown turned into a scowl.

"My tent, Colin," She growled. He couldn't help but notice all the second interpretations of that.

"I would most certainly love to accompany you to your tent, especially when you seem so… eager."

He smiled, and she gritted her teeth angrily. He continued before she could retort.

"But! Unfortunately, I'm afraid it will not be possible."

"Is that so? For what reason?" The leader said dryly.

_Quickly ,think of an excuse!_

"Because… I will accompany Saphira on her visit to the little peo – to the dwarves."

_"You will?" _ Saphira asked curiously on his mind.

Would he? He hadn't really planned on it, but now that he thought about the proposition, it did not sound bad. He was very much bored in the Varden camp, and that could only lead to dangerous outcomes. Being idle meant he would look for trouble – such as, for instance, challenging dragons or summoning daedric Princes.

"Absolutely not!" Nasuada snarled.

Well, that settled it then. He was going.

"I am not exactly asking for your permission, Nasuada."

From the corner of his eyes, he saw her guards begin to encircle him. It infuriated him even more – after all she'd heard and seen about him, she would still try to force him into doing her will? How _dare_ she. She sighed.

"Listen, Colin. I know we haven't exactly been in good terms with one another -"

"Understatement."

"Fine! You do not like me and I do not like you, either, but I have seen you fight Saphira, and with her gone, I need you here in case Murtagh and Thorn decide to attack!"

He scowled. There was truth in her words, of course, but the way she had seemingly taken the decision for him irritated him beyond measure. She had deliberately counted on him as a pawn to her game. She had not directly manipulated him, he realized, but rather done so behind his back. She found out his powers and did not immediately order him around, knowing that if she did so, he would still be available in the encampment should a dragon attack.

"I do not care. I have warned you, Nasuada, to not count me as one of your pawns, and yet you did so. Now it seems I must remind you that I am in charge of myself."

"Colin, be reasonable. Put your pride aside for a moment and think about the greater good -"

It happened faster than he could possibly have expected. Her words ignited something in him, some wild madness that had been gnawing at his mind ever since the night before, when Hircine had toyed with his insecurities. How dare her tell _him _to think about the greater good? His blood boiled and the heat traveled from his head to his throat as all his turbulent feelings erupted into fire.

He felt his control slip. He barely had time to divert his aim from her to the sky.

_"Yol… Toor SHUL!"_

His flames rose up in the air much higher than Saphira's had – hers had been powered by joy, his, by fury. He felt the Amulet of Talos act, making his Thu'um stronger and easier to release. He poured all his anger into it and it flowed like magma, until all of his soul had been drained and he had no more to burn.

He was assaulted by the void that acted up when he Shouted without consideration. Before, he had used his power by need – a need to destruct, yes, but a need nonetheless. He had used his Voice as a means of victory, and it had been his desire for change, coupled with his belief that he was doing the right thing, that had fueled his fire.

It was different now. He had used the Thu'um to release his fury and that was what he had achieved, burning away his emotions until there was nothing left. As a result, he had been left dead inside, empty.

Blissfully empty.

He closed his eyes and drew in a shaky breath. Now that he was no longer so irate, his thoughts seemed to be unclouded. His resolve, however, hadn't wavered.

"I'm going. They know you have a soldier who can take on dragons, but they don't know who I am. No one will notice I'm gone."

He reconsidered his statement. "Well, maybe Arya will, but I doubt she will miss me. Either way, I'm going."

He opened his eyes and noticed Nasuada had stepped back, while her guards were uncomfortably close. He felt a prickle of anger sprout from the ashes of his Shout, but forced himself to remain calm. Completely ignoring them, he walked towards Saphira. One of the guards walked in his way.

"Do not test me, Nasuada. You just might bite off more than you can chew."

As he spoke, he noticed the odd looking blue elf lead his companions and saddle Saphira, filling the saddlebags with food and equipment. Dovahkiin knew they did that to keep the appearances, so that none may find out Eragon was gone. The provisions would serve him conveniently.

He did a mental inventory check and confirmed he had everything he needed – his armor, his sword, his knife and the other fundamental things he always carried that went without saying, such as his journal and lockpicks.

Dovahkiin turned to Saphira.

"_Dovah_. Does our deal still stand? Will you let me ride you?"

The dragon stayed silent for a moment, hesitating, then replied.

_"I will keep my word."_

The guard still hadn't moved. He knew his Thu'um was recovering unnaturally fast due to the Amulet of Talos, but he still felt unable to shout. He tried to sidestep, but was stopped by the soldier, who shoved him back. He took in a deep breath, suppressing the anger that tried to arise.

"If you don't tell him to move, Nasuada, things might go ugly really fast." His tone was perfectly neutral.

Nasuada hesitated, then straightened herself with renewed determination. "You are in the middle of my army, and I have six of my best men surrounding you. Perhaps you were the one who overestimated yourself."

_Bad move. _Saphira watched him with eager eyes, but he knew she would not interfere for either side – she would not defy Nasuada, but she would not aid her either, for according to the way of the dragons, she could not go against one who had bested her in formal challenge.

Nasuada must have noticed his Thu'um had a cooldown time, and even with his amulet, it would still take him ten minutes or so to recover. Her men rounded him like hounds, and more soldiers added to the commotion. She was smart; he had to give her that. She must have wanted to subdue him for a while, and was just waiting for the right opportunity.

He had to admit he wasn't in the best of situations. His Voice would not recover fast enough to stop them from knocking him out, and he was very outnumbered. If she managed to overpower him, she would probably keep him drugged until he agreed to follow her orders.

And all he could count on to get out of that one was his trusty sword Dawnbreaker and his not-so-trusty magic. But he hadn't survived all he had gone through by being dull-witted – to the contrary, he was extremely crafty.

Dovahkiin was a very resourceful man.

A plan begun to form in his head. He rested one hand on Dawnbreaker, but did not draw it. He raised his other hand to the air and focused on the spell he wanted done. A dark purple conjuration light encased his closed fist and he felt a considerable drop on his magick pool.

All around him, he heard the hiss of steel against steel as swords were drawn, but he did not worry that they would attack, not while he still had his magic so clearly at work. Sensing it, the elves turned his attention to him, but did not make any sort of offensive move. They wouldn't risk interrupting him and seeing the consequences of a badly cast spell, and besides, he didn't think they were under Nasuada, either. The elves were an independent force, much like himself.

Dovahkiin felt the veil between worlds go thin as some sort of creature crossed over from Oblivion. The soldiers backed as he opened his fist, releasing the purple light. It hovered in front of him, expanding. He concentrated on the second part of the spell, the shape he wanted it to take.

He was casting Bound Bow, an adept ranked conjuration spell. The idea behind it was simple – bring a weak, lesser daedra from Oblivion and bind it to the shape of an object, usually a weapon, though it could be done with fundamentally anything. The first part was done - the deadra had crossed. Now he had to shape it and then restrain it.

Focusing, he visualized the bow in his mind. Slowly, the ghostly light begun to take the desired shape. A grip formed, and then the recurve limbs appeared, followed by the string. It developed a wicked, sharp design present in every daedric weapon, spiked ends coming out of the edges. The soldiers watched, mesmerized, but he paid them no mind.

The conjuration was almost complete – only one thing remained to be done.

_Bind it._

The creature protested, not wanting to be trapped. He concentrated hard, and slowly, the daedra succumbed, giving in. The demon was being caged in the shape of the bow, and for a moment, like always, he honestly believed that this time, it would work. And then it somehow slipped away from his grasp and the bow dispelled, the previously complete shape dissolving into a cloud of purple mist.

He had failed, like he knew he would. He drew Dawnbreaker then, but even so, the guards did not attack, intent on watching the magical fog. He initiated a mental countdown. _Ten, nine, eight… _ Instead of dissipating, the mist seemed to be forming into new shape. _Seven, six, five…_ It concentrated, creating a dense mass that was almost solid. _Four, three, two … _He could clearly discern limbs now, but the thing was far from human. _One…_

A horrible shriek was heard, and then the daedra broke free.

He calculated he had maybe five seconds to admire his accidentally-on-purpose summon before it attacked. Modesty aside, Dovahkiin could say he knew daedra very well. From the pale, skeletal body, distorted long and sharp limbs and most importantly, large mouth full of spiky teeth, he identified theone before him as a Hunger.

He quickly remembered the information he knew about those. Hungers were mostly servants of Boethiah, but could also be associated with Sheogorath, Mephala, Namira, Molag Bal, Sanguine and Claviculus Vile. Knowing himself, he had probably dragged this one straight out of the madgod's realm. This specific kind of daedra was not particularly bright, but compensated by being lightning fast and having the special ability of feeding off the victim's stamina.

He almost laughed – he would never be able to call forth such powerful demon if he tried. Indeed, from what he knew, even a master conjurer would have trouble in summoning this one. It was unbound, of course. It turned to Dovahkiin and he knew the creature's first instinct would be attacking the conjurer.

Pain shot through his face and arms as Hunger's claws ripped through his skin, and Dovahkiin realized too late that he had underestimated the daedra's speed. He hadn't even seen it approach. He lifted his foot to deliver it a kick, but the creature was too fast. It dodged and hurtled itself on him and they fell, Hunger on top of him.

It lowered its mouth near his face and he felt his stamina drop at alarming rates. His limbs felt heavy and his muscles were weary. With inhuman determination, he sat up abruptly, headbutting Hunger's face. Hitting his knee to its abdomen, he managed to throw it off – it had thin, bony limbs and though resilient, it wasn't particularly heavy.

Before it had time to recover, Dovahkiin moved his sword hand, managing to deliver a light blow to the demon. The cut boiled as it kindled with Meridia's fire. Hunger hissed and backed away. Yelling, Dovahkiin brandished Dawnbreaker in its direction. The Cuirass chose that convenient moment to awake, and the wolf's eyes on his armor lit up with a red glow.

Hunger flinched, sensing the presence of two powerful artifacts. Dovahkiin knew it would change targets if he proved too strong. He snarled and got back to his feet, and making an abrupt movement towards the daedra, put all his remaining magick on a single stream of Sparks.

The creature dodged, avoiding both his blow and his magic, but slammed its back on one of the soldiers. With an alarmed yelp, the man retreated, shoving Hunger away with his foot. That was exactly what Dovahkiin had been waiting for; the demon turned, its attention diverted from its troublesome summoner to the frightened soldier who had kicked it – much easier prey.

Dovahkiin didn't wait to see what would happen – he took his chance and closed the remaining distance between Saphira and himself. The sound of tearing flesh followed by desperate screams of pain seemed to snap the soldiers out of their dazes. Shouting voices barking orders emerged over the noise of boots clanging hurriedly.

Without looking back, he heard footsteps that indicated he was being pursued. It was too late, however – he reached the saddle and used his feet and unhurt arm to propel himself up. From up Saphira's neck, he risked a glance.

The soldiers had encircled the Hunger and he could see the daedra had already taken down at least half a dozen men, but it was clearly outnumbered. They ganged up on it, slicing and kicking, but it was still incredibly fast – as he watched, it dodged three swords and sunk its teeth on the nearest man's throat, ripping his veins out. Nasuada herself had retreated, led back by her guards who shouted commands at the other rebels.

"Go, go, go!" He told Saphira as his captors-to-be got closer.

The dragon reacted, but slowly, too slowly. The men reached him and one of the gigantic Urgals bolted forward, grasping his feet. He kicked and sliced, trying to fend them off, but the orcish beast refused to let go.

And then finally, _finally_, he felt his lungs heat and his throat tingle with a familiar sensation and he knew his Thu'um had recovered enough for at least one Shout word. Thanking Kyne, Akatosh and Talos, he faced the soldiers behind him with a sadistic grin.

_"FUS!"_

His thunderous Voice cut through the air, raw power, shoving the rebels away like ragdolls, and even the damnable Urgal who was holding him down was pushed aside like a leaf. He had bought himself some time, but he knew they would recover soon.

_"Bo! Wah fin lok! Bo! _ Fly, fly, fly! Take to the sky, _go!" _He rushed Saphira, and she finally seemed to take the hint.

She opened her wings and flapped. Sheathing Dawnbreaker, he used both his hands to secure a grip on the saddle as she took off. They hovered in the air, a couple meters, then higher and higher, and Dovahkiin let himself relax a bit – they wouldn't attack and risk harming her now.

She caught a warm air current and they gained altitude. He turned back to check on the Hunger and saw an Urgal had it by the head and was hitting it repeatedly on the ground. It had slain three others since he last checked on it, but it wouldn't last much longer.

As he looked around, his eyes met Nasuada's. A delightful smile crossed his face and he flipped her the finger. From her look of outrage, he could tell the gesture was just as offensive here as it was in Tamriel. He would be in _such_ deep trouble when he returned.

The wind whipped his face, messing his hair, and as they got higher and things grew smaller, he felt the warm sun on his back. They entered a cloud, making him suddenly wet and chilly. He laughed in joy and his heart felt light – Dovahkiin _loved _flying. He felt a probe in his mind and allowed Saphira in, flooding her with his elation.

_"You seem quite happy,"_ She said with a hint of amusement.

"I love flying; what _Dovah _doesn't?" He shot back at her.

_"And do you fly often?"_

"Sometimes. Odahviing finds it cruel that one should be _Dovah_ with no wings, so he gives me rides every once in a while. But mostly, I enjoy jumping off the top of _Monahven_. The fall is amazing."

_"How come you are not flattened to a pulp when you reach the ground?"_

"_Feim._ I make myself ethereal before I hit." He chuckled. "The Greybeards are more than a little unsettled by it, and Paarthurnax finds my use of the Thu'um nothing short of amusing."

By the feelings he was receiving from their mental link, he could tell she found it humorous, too. Ignoring her for a while, he released the grip of one of his hands and used his newly recovered magick to close the wounds given to him by the Hunger. Saphira noticed his activities.

_"What was the unearthly creature you summoned?"_

"A distraction."

_"Your distraction was the death of dozens."_

Oh, that was all he needed - a dragon with morals. Dovahkiin scowled.

"And what would you have me do, _Dovah_? Bow my head and quietly obey your leader? If anyone is to blame, it is her, not me. I warned her, more than once. Besides, I had no idea I would bring out a daedra that powerful. I expected some kind of scamp."

_"You did not know what you were summoning?"_

"I needed a distraction," he explained, "So I cast Bound Bow, knowing that I would fail and that the unbound daedra would escape. Though binding spells purposely bring forth weaker demons. How did a Hunger manage to cross, is beyond me."

Hircine's words echoed on his head then, and he remembered what the prince had said – about how this world had no Aedric defenses. If so, that explained how easily he had summoned the Hunger. He took a mental note to not try any conjuration again – he did not want to risk bringing forth dremoras or worse.

Saphira did not reply, so instead, he asked her something that had been nagging him for a while.

"Do the _Fahliil_ share a bond with the _Dov? _Is it the same share with Eragon?"

And for the next hour, he heard a long story about how the dragons and the elves lived in peace – which he found utterly unbelievable - until an elf provoked a war between them and said war was ended with a pact between the dragons and elfkind that bound them forever, rendering the elves ageless and giving the dragons _language_ and _civilization_, of all things.

He found it absolutely absurd that the dragons would not have their own order and language. It meant they were no more than mere beasts – incredibly powerful beasts, but beasts nonetheless.

The Alagaesian dragons were but a shadow of their Tamrielic counterparts – it was as if one had tried, and failed terribly, to copy off Akatosh's creations. Remembering Solembum's words, he realized that as far as he knew, that was very possible.

He reached to the supplies and brought out a canteen of water, which he took a drink of. He wondered how long the journey would take, and mused on how incredibly unhappy Eragon would be to see him. The feeling would be mutual.

Eragon would _definitely_ not be happy when he found out that he was a dragon hunter or that he had bested Saphira in a fight. And he would be more than just unhappy when he heard about Dovahkiin's adventure with Arya – though this tale would be hers to tell, if so she wished.

He decided he would try to delay the unavoidable and not let the boy hear about all that anytime soon, not when they would have to share Saphira's saddle on the way back – and he did not want a knife to his throat while he slept, either.

"There is something I must request of you, _Dovah_. You must not inform your rider about my identity or our combat."

He felt a wild array of emotions coming from her – outrage, confusion, anger. He could tell she was not pleased with his decision.

_"There will be no secrets between Eragon and I", _She said finally.

There were many bad things about being one of the last of her kind, and one of those was that she simply didn't understand how things worked. Dragon costumes dictated that by defeating her, he had made himself her _Thur_, and as such, she would bend to his will and do his bidding, without questioning. Her lack of knowledge on her kind's traditions made him feel almost sympathetic – almost. He growled at her defiance.

"Have you fallen so far that I must remind you of the way of the _Dov_? I am _Thur_, and you will _not_ question my orders. If you have trouble with my _uth, _my commands, then by Akatosh and Alduin, you will discuss it with me, a like true _Dovah_ does! Is that what you want?"

She roared into the sky and he wondered if he would have to fight her again. There was no forgiveness to a rebellious dragon – in Tamriel, those who questioned his orders had their souls taken. He would not go as far as that with her, but he was certainly willing to be a little cruel. He had spared her of Dragonrend and Bend Will on their first confront. He wouldn't be so nice anymore.

Ever since he had taken Alduin's place, he had never had to fight an actual, formal dispute for his position. Dragons attacked him, of course, and though that had diminished drastically since he returned from Sovngarde, some still underestimated him because of his mortal shape. Mostly, however, he was the one who would hunt them down, and after a while, his name begun to strike fear in their hearts, not unlike Miraak's.

But, should he die, his killer would not take his ranking as _Thur – _it would instead be passed on to his right-hand dragon. If one actually wished to take it, the procedure, as he found out after defeating Alduin, dictated that a formal challenge consisted of facing the Second before going for the _Thur_ himself – a procedure he had followed, albeit unintentionally, by defeating Odahviing before going for Alduin.

And, somehow, the idea of going through Odahviing seemed to discourage any challenger.

_"It is not," _Saphira finally spat out.

"Then you will do as I say, or by the Nine, last of your kind or not, you will face the consequences. Am I understood?"

She didn't answer. He waited – nothing.

_"Am I understood?"_ He repeated, letting a bit of his Thu'um lace the sentence, making it unnaturally assertive.

_"Yes, Thuri."_

"Good."

Whether she did not know the way of the _Dov_ or simply had no one to enforce it before, he was unsure. Either way, he realized he would have to deal with the whole process of showing who was boss, over and over again, until it sunk in. It was like raising children, and if dragons back in Tamriel had offspring, he imagined that was how Dovah-mommy would feel.

He found himself wishing Odahviing was there to take the role of Dovah-daddy and just throttle some sense into her. Of course, if he was the mommy and Odahviing was the daddy that would imply – _What in Oblivion?! _

He groaned – he was tired and not thinking straight. He noticed Hunger must have drained much more of his stamina than he had firstly reckoned.

Dovahkiin sighed. Cursed children, mad witches, Delphine-wannabes, troublesome elves, spectral boyfriends, daedric princes, and now a six-limbed, moralistic-but-uneducated dragon. He suspected the Divines were laughing at him right now. The Princes, he was one hundred per cent sure.

He rubbed his temples and could not help but think Arya was right – it did feel relaxing. He leaned back against the saddle and let his muscles relax. He hoped Saphira didn't do any stunt that made him fall, because if he died, he would… why, he would… he would think of something. He closed his eyes and, steadying his breath, fell into a dreamless sleep.

**_Okay, here it is. This is more like a transition chapter, because I have to actually make him get going to the dwarves._**

**_About the flogging : In the end, I couldn't really write it. Let me explain - if you take a look at Brisingr, you'll see that when it occurs, Saphira is already with Eragon and the dwarves. _****_Meaning, when Roran gets back to the Varden, they are already gone. Now, I had to change that a little, obviously, so in case it wasn't clear, here goes an explanation._**

**_So, following my timeline, they arrive on a day, with Saphira still there. In this day, they don't really do any reports, focusing on the injured and generally letting the soldiers take a break. I know they probably actually do their reports immediately, but screw that. This is the day the Dragonborn fights Saphira and at this night, he goes on his little adventure with Arya. _**

**_Now, this chapter is set on the day after that, in which Nasuada finally hears about Roran and decides to have him whipped. Thus, we have a moment in this chapter where she goes to seek Angela out, to heal Roran and prepare him for the next mission. After that, Nasuada goes after Saphira to tell her she can leave for Eragon, and that's when the Dragonborn decides to tag along._**

**_The whipping would take place after Nasuada was done delivering the news, so the Dragonborn misses it. The reason I had to do it is because Roran's whipping is actually a terrible plot trap. You see, following my timeline, if the Dragonborn witnesses it, then it means Saphira also does, which therefore means she'll tell Eragon. Now, the reason that is a problem is, if Eragon learns of his cousin's whipping he will have to either a) grow a pair and confront Nasuada about it, or b) make up some lame excuse about why Nasuada is actually right._**

**_Option 'a' means I'll have to completely change Eragon's personality and thus get him out of character. And while I could probably go for 'b' and make up an excuse, that means I would have to write an Eragon's point of view to present it, or else, it would seem like Eragon just disregarded his cousin, meaning he would be out of his I'm-so-full-of-morals character. And making an Eragon point of view... argh. I just can't. It would be infinitely harder than making an Arya point of view, because we actually know how Eragon's mind work, and there is something so very wrong with him. He's not like Colin, who is an asshole and knows it. No, Eragon is an asshole that honestly thinks he isn't. It kills me._**

**_I know you guys really wanted to see it, and I'm really really sorry that I didn't. I just couldn't fit it in the plot, sorry. _**

**_Anyway. This AN is growing too big, so I'll just end it here. Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed. I love reading your reviews and suggestions, they honestly inspire me, especially when I have to write a painfully 'filler' chapter like this one. Special thanks to my beta, ShadowedFang._**

**_Thanks for reading!_**


	13. Chapter 12

"So the king of the little people was called Hrothgar?"

"Yes," Eragon replied curtly, "And don't let them hear you call them that."

There was something incredibly amusing in how the really short king had the same name as the Greybeard's on-a-really-tall-mountain fort. But mostly, there was something _obscenely_ amusing in Eragon's sour mood. The boy was fuming.

Dovahkiin's only explanation to his presence there had been, "I have come because of Nasuada," which wasn't technically a lie. Eragon had been very displeased, and it was clear the rider was trying hard to be mature about it all and act politely. Fortunately, Dovahkiin had no such reservations.

"Are we there yet?" He asked for what had to be the billionth time.

They had been walking for at least a mile now, under tons of heavy stone. He didn't particularly mind being underground; he was more than used to it, actually, from exploring multiple caves, tombs and ruins. It didn't mean he liked it, however - he enjoyed flying and high places and being on top of mountains, not under them. Eragon halted and Dovahkiin realized they had finally reached the end of the tunnel.

"_Yes_, Colin, we are here." The boy replied irritatedly.

Dovahkiin took in the city. Tronjheim, as it was called, was basically a very tall cone, looking somehow like a mountain within a mountain, which struck him as rather… uncreative. Then again, when it came down to majestic underground constructions, Blackreach was unbeatable. Lifting up his head, he saw an opening on the top, from where light came in and illuminated the city, and realized the mountain must have been a volcano.

"Well, what do you think?" Eragon asked with a smug tone.

"Admirable," Dovahkiin replied, "Though I've seen more impressive."

The boy scowled. "I doubt that."

Dovahkiin reminded himself that Eragon did not know he came from a much more interesting world, where mountains within volcanoes were only mildly surprising. He shrugged, then, ignoring the boy, resumed his walking. He heard Eragon grumble in annoyance before following him and suppressed a smile.

As he approached, he noticed a surprising albeit relieving absence of Centurions, Spheres or Spiders. In fact, he saw none of the machinery and technology he associated with the Dwemer; there were no steam machines, gigantic gears or complex mechanisms - those dwarves were not even close to the technological advance once achieved by Tamrielic ones. On the bright side, there weren't any Falmer lurking around, either.

It took them an hour or so, but they finally reached the building, where they met one of the little people. He was short and beardy, with a rather stocky and bulky build, like every other dwarf he had seen so far, so Dovahkiin drew the conclusion that was just how dwarves were.

He mentally stored that information together with other racial stereotypes; Argonians were scaly and fishy, Dunmer were blue, red eyed and grumpy, Khajiits were furry and sneaky, Nords were big and blonde, Imperials were sly-tongued and clever, Bretons were scrawny mages, Bosmer were tan forest-people, Altmer were snotty Thalmor bastards who ate little children, and Orcs were…well, orcs. Alagaesian dwarves were short. And beardy.

"Greetings, Saphira!" The dwarf said cheerily, then turned to him, "And you, I don't believe we've met. I'm Orik, chief of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum and king to be crowned."

It didn't escape Dovahkiin that in the end, Eragon's friend was the one who had been elected king. _What a surprising coincidence._ Dwarven politics was none of his business however, and he had no specific reason to want to displease the dwarf - to the contrary, despite being a king-to-be, Orik had acted nicely without requiring any sort of bowing or presumptuously fancy greetings. Therefore, Dovahkiin went for the well-mannered course of action.

"Is that so? My congratulations on taking the throne."

The dwarf nodded his thanks. "You are a friend of Eragon's, I assume?"

Dovahkiin snorted. "You assume wrongly. I'm Colin."

He extended his hand. The dwarf frowned at his comment, but took it anyway. And then, because everyone was so full of pompous titles and he most certainly did not want to be known as 'Eragon's not-friend', he added, "Colin Stormcrown."

The title of Stormcrown was one that, though bestowed to him by the Greybeards and as such, rightfully his, he would not have dared to take back in Tamriel, for it carried so much weight that using it was almost , it would immediately reveal his identity as Dragonborn, which he tried to avoid.

In Alagaesia, however, none knew of Talos of Atmora who later became Tiber Septim, so he thought it was his duty to take the Storm Crown upon himself and make the name of the Dragonborn known here, too. Besides, though he had dozens of titles, all of them would be equally meaningless in this world, so he just chose one that sounded as ostentatious as everyone else's.

The dwarf raised an eyebrow at him. "Stormcrown, eh? Nobility, are we?"

Clearly, the 'crown' part of his title had succeeded in making him sound fancy. Eragon seemed just as surprised as his dwarf friend.

Serana had once asked him the same question after a rather …unfortunate event. As it turned out, vampires could discern very well the taste between different blood types, being able to tell their meal's race, age, gender and even, incredibly, distinctive characteristics of a bloodline. She also told him they had people dedicated to the study and cataloguing of blood and its tastes, which Dovahkiin found at the very least disturbing.

_"It's like wine,"_ _She explained guiltily._ _"And yours would be the Cyrodiilic Brandy of bloodlines. There is a heavy Aedric touch to it – it tingles. Almost burns. Intoxicating."_

_She licked her lips again. "And ah, a definite spice of ex-lycanthrope, too. Very exquisite. "_

_"Ah…thanks, I guess." He replied light-headedly._

_He rubbed on his sore throat, then uncorked a healing potion and took it in a gulp. He reached out for another. She shot him an analytical look._

_"I could make quite a profit out of you. I know some who would pay thousands of septims for a bottle of that."_

_"Oh? And what would you call it, the Volkihar Blood-ery? You could work something out with Maven. You'd make quite the team."_

_Serana scowled. He knew she despised Maven Black-Briar. She was too much like Harkon for the vampire's liking._

_"Or I could make you my thrall and feast on you for eternity. Yes, I very much like that idea. I wouldn't have to deal with your irritating self."_

_"I've heard the vampires like to use their thralls to do other things, too. Very nasty things."_

_The priceless look on her face told him that what he had used as a jest might actually be a truth. She turned away, as if to hide a blush. The funny thing was, he wouldn't have noticed her awkwardness if she hadn't done so – vampires couldn't really blush, what with being undead and all. He laughed._

_She had her back to him, so he took the chance to discretely grab another healing potion. He didn't want to let her know, but he was rather dizzy. He was just wondering whether he should drink a Cure Disease one when she interrupted._

_"You don't need that one," Serana snapped "I am a Vampire Lord, not a lowly bloodsucker. I don't infect people if I don't want to."_

_He knew she felt bad about it all, but what choice did they have?_

_After learning Dragonrend, as soon as he was done with the Elder Scroll, he had decided the artifact was better off kept safe and away from possible madmen who would want it for less than noble reasons – putting out the sun, for instance. And say what you will, there was no better place to safeguard it than where it came from, so after much arguing with himself, Dovahkiin had returned the scroll to Blackreach._

_Of course he would end up needing that Scroll again._

_Of course the lift to the Scroll room would get stuck, making him go the long way around. Of course all the traps and machinery would have reset themselves somehow. Of course the Falmer would have repopulated at an illogical speed. Of course he still didn't know how to open the scroll receptacle, so he had to stand for hours there, randomly pressing buttons. Again. Of course Serana wouldn't let him go by himself. Of course she would run out of blood potions in a place where the only options for a meal were the Falmer and himself._

_Of course he wasn't letting her have disgusting Falmer blood._

_He reached for another potion, a stamina one this time. It considerably helped and he felt the weakness diminish. She locked eyes with him and he gave her an awkward smile. He had trusted her from the moment she appeared on Fort Dawnguard – if she was willing to take such risks, she must have been desperate. And he just couldn't resist helping a desperate lady. She, on the other hand, was beyond cautious with him, and he couldn't really blame her._

_Firstly, he was a member of the Dawnguard. He was also Akatosh's champion – not that she knew that at the time. She did know he was Harbinger of the Companions, which meant he associated with werewolves. And, to top it all off, that sword on his hip, wasn't that Dawnbreaker? Meridia's legendary bane of the undead artifact? No wonder she was so guarded around him._

_He had moved her from 'asset' to 'friend' when they managed to rescue the Moth Priest together – as a general rule, people who went through extremely dangerous situations with him and came out alive were immediately promoted to friends, even if said people so happened to be vampires. Or, for that matter, werewolves, nightingales, dragons or even elves._

_She kept her cold and cautious stance until she couldn't hold it anymore. It wasn't until after the Soul Cairn, where she'd had a heartbreaking talk with her mother that she finally opened up to him, and he felt they were no longer a vampire and a hunter forced to work together by circumstance. They were actually… friends._

_Or so he hoped._

_"I'm sorry," She repeated. He'd lost count of how many times she'd apologized. "I swear you'll never have to do that again."_

_Isran would say she planned it all, but Dovahkiin didn't believe so. Potions of blood weren't the kind of thing one found at the local alchemy shop, and Serana couldn't very well walk into Castle Volkihar to get some._

_"Don't fret about it. It was nothing, really."_

_It was definitively something. That he, a Dawnguard member, a Companion, Akatosh's champion, would voluntarily let a vampire feed on him wasn't the kind of thing one saw every day. Isran would have his hide if he heard about it, and of course there was no mistaking the puncture wounds on his neck. Dovahkiin would have to make up an excuse for it – blame it on one of Harkon's, maybe._

_"It was something and you know it. I could have killed you."_

_"I trust you completely." He repeated the words he had said before she partially trapped his soul._

_She dropped her gaze and didn't reply. Frowning, she put a finger in her ear irritably, then looked around, scrutinizing the cave. Finally, she walked away towards a water puddle and came back with Crimson Nirnroot, which she stuffed into his bag._

_"Cursed roots," she grumbled, "I can hear them ringing from a mile away."_

_He chuckled. "Look on the bright side, 'Rana. The good thing about being underground is, at least there are no dragons down here."_

_It wasn't long after that they were ambushed by Falmer, again. The creatures were incredibly dangerous, despite being blind, and how in Oblivion they managed to use bows without seeing was beyond him. Still, he and Serana took them down without much trouble – all but one. He aimed his Unrelenting Force on the annoying Falmer who persistently shot arrows from above._

_Of course he missed and accidentally hit the glowing orb-thing above them with his Thu'um._

_Of course it brought forth a dragon._

Later on, he told her he never really knew who his parents were – if Grelod knew, she took pleasure in hiding it. She actually offered to look it up for him, and he gave her a blood sample, which she told him she had sent to professional cataloguers in Cyrodiil. Though if she ever got an answer and found out anything about his family, he didn't know.

There was an unlikely but possible chance that he actually descended from the Septims, which would explain his being Dragonborn. Then again, keeping in mind the dragon blood gift was said to be hereditary, there was always the horrifying second possibility – that he descended not from the noble line of emperors, but from Miraak. Or he could be completely unrelated to either, being picked as Akatosh's champion for obscure reasons.

Truth was, Dovahkiin simply didn't care. He knew he was a Nord and he knew he was Dragonborn and that was that. He shrugged at Orik and Eragon, who were very expectantly waiting for an answer.

"Nobility? Me? Something like that, I suppose."

Eragon scowled at his unsatisfactory answer. Orik looked from Dovahkiin to the rider as if trying to figure out what was wrong between them, then just shrugged it off and rushed to bid them farewell; he had made a point to personally greet Saphira, but he had to go to prepare himself for the coronation, which would occur later that day. It had taken Dovahkiin and Saphira four days to reach the dwarven city, arriving just in time.

They were led through a long and twisting path by another dwarf, whose name he did not catch; until they reached what he assumed was a chamber close to the center of the city. There, they would wait until it was time for the coronation. Saphira was offered sheep, which she devoured five of, while Dovahkiin himself was offered a not particularly appetizing meal of cold stew, though he ate it nonetheless.

It didn't take long for him to get bored and start fidgeting. He couldn't really help it; he was used to jumping from one life threatening situation to another, not sitting quietly and waiting for monarchs to take the throne. He even dodged Elisif's kind invitations to Solitude's parties, which he got quite often due to his position as Harbinger and because he was friends with her.

It wasn't that he didn't know how to behave, he just didn't like to. He found parties to be way more exciting in the Thalmor Embassy, especially if he was infiltrating it to steal documents. He noticed Eragon was looking at his jumpy self in distaste. He grinned wickedly. Maybe this could turn into an excitingly dangerous situation after all.

He was _so_ going to get revenge on Little Elf for badmouthing him to Nasuada.

"So what's between you and Arya?"

He watched the boy go from normal to pale, to red and then to purple. _Ooooh, touchy subject._

"What about it?" He finally forced out.

"You know what I mean."

Eragon clenched his teeth. "We are friends, nothing beyond that."

The look on his face told Dovahkiin that if the rider and the elf were just friends, it was not because of the lack of trying on his part. He knew that due to both elven culture and Arya's troubled past, she would only have a relationship with the closest, most intimate companions.

And even if elves matured differently and in practical terms she was probably not much older than Dovahkiin himself, young human men had a notable reputation of quickly changing love interests, and Eragon could be no older than twenty.

If she had turned the rider down so absolutely as he made it seem, it meant they weren't close enough for her to even consider it. Dovahkiin could see two possible scenarios for that; one, the boy had barely known her when he made a move, and thus hadn't known about her dead lover, or two, they had been friends for long enough for her to tell him about Faölin and he had pressed her for a relationship anyway, which was just plain cruel.

There might always be a third possibility he didn't think of, but he doubted that. Something told him Eragon wasn't much smarter than say, Farkas. The first time they met, the boy had tried to poke around in his head without any valid reason, and then dared to insinuate he was afraid of dragons – as if! And, on the second time they met, it was Dovahkiin saving the rider's behind, only for the boy to let the damn enemy escape. Thinking back to it, the fitting place for Eragon in the 'smarts scale' was probably right between an Armored Troll and Meeko.

Focusing back on the two scenarios, he couldn't pick which one was worse. In both cases, it was clear Eragon had impulsively acted on his own selfish desires without really taking her feelings into consideration. Divines, if he had cared about her at least a little, he would have respected her obvious suffering over the death of a lover or at least noticed something was wrong, and given her time.

Dovahkiin did not like that at all. He could see Eragon was interested in her, but it was impossible to tell whether the rider actually had feelings or if it was just infatuation. And Arya was trying to recover from the loss of the man she'd probably been with since before Dovahkiin was born – possibly since before Dovahkiin's _parents_ were born. Not to mention her traumatic imprisonment.

It couldn't possibly be something easy for her, and all his troublesome psychotic elf friend did not need was a boy to add hollow hormone induced feelings to her pile of trouble. And while being Dragonborn was generally a gigantic pain, there were some good things about it, one of them being that as a general rule, if he wanted to scare an asshole away from a girl, he was plenty capable of doing so. Even if said asshole happened to have a dragon.

And even if it was absolutely none of his business, either.

Still, he had to know for sure and the boy refused to say anything significant; he realized he'd have to try a different approach. He put on his best innocent look.

"Oh. I was under the impression that you might be…romantically interested in her. But if you aren't…"

He trailed off suggestively and scratched his stubble, seeming thoughtful.

"I am." Eragon growled.

The unspoken "stay away from her" was very clear on his tone. It turned out that Eragon was the jealous type. A little voice in Dovahkiin's head told him he was being quite hypocritical – wasn't he doing precisely the same thing, trying to scare a rascal away from a girl? He quickly shoved the thought away. He wasn't jealous, he was _protective_, which was very different, and he also had a convenient dragon soul he could place the blame on for that sort of illogical behavior.

Besides, Dovahkiin just knew better.

_"Snake tongue," _Saphira snarled in his head.

"Dragon tongue, actually. Or just Tongue, if you will." He replied.

"What?" Eragon said in confusion.

Dovahkiin waved it off. "Saphira was having trouble discerning reptiles. Now, about you and Little Elf -"

"Little elf?" He interrupted, his tone dangerous.

"Yes, Little Elf. Deal with it."

He was becoming quite irate and Dovahkiin mused on how easy he was to anger. For someone who was supposed to be a great diplomat, he was quite hotheaded. The rider got up abruptly and walked over to him.

"If you dare to disrespect her once more -"

Was Eragon really trying to intimidate _him_? Dovahkiin got up as well and glared right back. He noticed with delight he was taller than Eragon, and way bigger. At times like that, he just loved to be a Nord.

"Oh, _please._ I bet deep inside, she likes it." He challenged.

"Did your parents forget to teach you what respect means?"

Dovahkiin supposed he should have felt mad – if only he'd had any parents and not a sociopathic caretaker. Still, the intention was what counted and Eragon clearly meant to offend. There was only one equivalent comeback, but if he threw the bait then and there, he'd forever ruin the not so stable relationship between him and the rider.

_In for a Septim, in for a hundred._

Scenario one or scenario two? Arya was a very guarded kind of person and he doubted she and Eragon had been friends for long; the boy simply wasn't old enough to meet the amount of years of friendship required for her to confide in him. The only reason Dovahkiin himself knew so much about the elf was a combination of luck, an encounter with an all-knowing daedric Prince and, as both Saphira and Arya herself had already pointed out, his serpent's tongue.

He made a split second choice and went for scenario one. The whole thing was a shot in the dark and he had nothing more than hunches to rely on, but insults didn't need to be logical or based on facts anyway.

"Disrespectful would be… making a move on a woman you barely know, selfishly expecting her to care about your empty feelings while not even noticing her own grief. Or was that hypocritical? I tend to mix them up."

He knew the insult had hit home because half a second later, Eragon's fist hit his jaw. He'd seen it coming though, and managed to dodge almost the full strength of the blow. Laughing, he teased.

"Come on, I've taken worse punches from women!"

It was a fact; truthfully, the worse punches he'd ever taken came from females. And it didn't really take Aela or Serana's unnatural strength to win his respect, either. From Uthgerd to Lydia, the ladies in Skyrim were quite the wild fighters, and there was nothing offending in fighting like a woman.

Apparently, Eragon didn't see it that way. The boy struck with his other hand, and this time, it hit _hard_. Dovahkiin didn't wait for another one; shoving the rider away, he threw out his own punch, and soon the two were rolling on the ground.

They were equally matched when it came down to brute force, but Eragon had the advantage on speed. He hit faster than Dovahkiin could block, and blocked most of what was coming to him. Still, for all his physical prowess, the rider was no match for Dovahkiin's sheer experience on brawls – he might not land all the hits, but when he did, they were staggering.

Panting, the two separated themselves, pushing one another away. Dovahkiin swore – he had at least two broken fingers, and more bruises than he'd like to count. On the other hand, to his utter and complete satisfaction, he'd taken a tooth out of Eragon, and it was one of the front ones, too. The boy spat out blood and eyed him with pure hatred, then shouted out an incantation.

He noticed too late the crackle of magic in the air and prepared for a blow, but it never came. He saw surprise in Eragon's face as he repeated the spell, and still, nothing happened. He even felt the energy shift around him, only to be deflected by some unknown force –

The Saviour's Hide.

Dovahkiin realized he _did_ like Hircine, when the Prince wasn't deliberately tormenting him. Eragon's surprise turned into frustration and the boy changed the target of the spell – instead of directly throwing magic at him, the rider instead used it to hurl a nearby stone table in his direction. He ducked, and it missed him by inches, shattering behind him.

That was absolutely unfair – one's not supposed to use magic on brawls, after all, the point of a fistfight was doing it with the fists. Abruptly, a chunk of the table moved forward, crashing against his back. He stumbled and fell on his face, and the stone piece hit one of his legs, edge first. He heard a sickening crunch; pain flared up and he immediately knew it was broken.

He moved the stone away to check on the damage, the pain making him see stars. Even by Dovahkiin's thieving, immoral standards, the rider had been damn _dirty._ Eragon walked towards him triumphantly. The boy held himself in such a better-than-you way, it almost seemed he had honestly bested an opponent.

Dovahkiin would bet that, in his mind, the rider had a thousand excuses for why cheating in a brawl was perfectly reasonable. In fact, the boy probably didn't even think he'd cheated. Eragon was the kind of infantile, cocky son of a horker who wouldn't even recognize himself as one. _Divines, he's worse than even me!_

"Now, this is why you'd better respect people stronger than you -"

Oh,_ no way._ Dovahkiin would have none of that.

"_FUS!_"

He knew the shout would be unnaturally strong, combining both the effects of his fury and the Amulet of Talos. And with that in mind, he even had the decency to stop at the first word so as to not disintegrate the boy and make the walls around them cave in - he was such a gentleman indeed.

Eragon was swiped off his feet and flew across the room, crashing on the opposing wall. There was a series of gratifying cracks that indicated multiple broken bones and the boy let out a yelp of pain, which was even more delightful. _When did I become such a sadistic fuck?_ He gave that question approximately five seconds of thought. _Huh. Must've something to do with the dragon._

A noise of clanging boots followed by a sharp rasping of steel against steel made him turn and he saw three dwarven guards approach. He reached for Dawnbreaker with one hand and let a healing spell work with the other, flinching as his bones mended themselves. Eragon pushed himself up leaning against the wall and took one of the guard's swords –

_"ENOUGH!" _Saphira's roar shook the chamber, halting her rider and making the dwarves step back.

_"Look at you!" _She continued with snarls, _"Eragon! What would Oromis say? What would Brom say?"_

That seemed to get through him, because the boy stopped, seemingly ashamed.

_"And you, Colin, what would your companions say of this childishness?"_

_Show 'em who's boss, lad! Best one gets the girl!_

_Brynjolf, shut the fu –_

_Raise those fists! Raise those fists, for the love of Talos, I've seen better stances on children!_

_Aela, I am quite aware on how to brawl –_

_I think he's cheating._

_Damn right he's cheating, Farkas!_

He shook his head; this world was slowly but surely driving him insane. Next thing he knows, he'll be running around yelling about cheese. He massaged his temples with his fingers – and to top it all off, that damn elf was rubbing off on him, too. He'd better not make a habit out of this.

He let the spell run its course until his magick ran out, and then got up slowly, trying to keep the weight off his leg – it was the sort of injury that would take more than one round of healing to fix completely, especially because he'd also spent a long of energy curing minor bruises. Still, he managed to walk with only a slight limp. He barely had time to dust himself off and wipe out the blood from his face when drums begun to sound and they were herded inside.

"Don't smile," he whispered, knowing the rider would hear him, "You're missing a tooth."

The boy clenched his fists but did not respond. They walked in and Dovahkiin took his place next to Eragon and Saphira as the supposed guests of honor. Not, he immediately realized, because he was actually one, but because everyone else was so short, if he stood in the middle of the crowd, it would look ridiculous.

_"You're vile", _the dragon spoke in his head. Her presence did not leave his mind, so he assumed she was expecting him to answer telepathically.

_"Your rider is insufferable," _he thought back at her.

_"You started it."_

She had a point, there.

_"He threw the first punch." _he countered.

She let through a stream of irritation and he realized she'd just given him a mental snort.

_"As if it wasn't exactly what you intended!"_

_"Well, isn't he the one who's supposed to be the noble, exemplary, morally perfect rider? As opposed to me, the uneducated, dull-witted ruffian? Why, I can't even read!"_

Trumpets begun to play, followed by a choir, and then what were probably important political figures walked in and took their places. He paid them no mind; he was engrossed in his discussion with Saphira.

_"You and I know very well you are none of those things, Dovahkiin."_

_"You and I know very well that is exactly what he thinks I am, Dovah."_ He snapped back at her.

_"It is the impression you chose to give."_

He actually liked talking to dragons, at least to those who did not try to eat him. Despite not knowing very much about the way of her race, Saphira was very intelligent.

_"Indeed, Dovah. There is no advantage like that given by a foe who underestimates you. Alas, if such deception works with the one who is supposed to be your savior, I cannot help but find him lacking."_

_"He has much to learn," _Saphira agreed, _"But until he does, I am there to see to those things for him."_

It was such an alien notion – that a dragon had the patience to watch over someone, willingly, that he simply had no answer to give, so he turned his attention back to the ceremony.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, Orik begun to walk from the gate to the central chamber, followed by twelve dwarf children – and those were very, very short, Dovahkiin noted bemusedly. Orik's appearance had changed drastically from what he'd seen only a few hours before. The dwarf wore all kinds of fancy clothing and had actually brushed his beard, looking like an oddly cute little person.

The dwarf approached, and it was as if he was deliberately taking his time, which he probably was – one doesn't get crowned every day. _Dear gods, look at how short those legs are! _Short steps with short legs meant the dwarf would take nothing short of forever to arrive. Dovahkiin let himself drift off.

He thought about how quick the people in Alagaesia were to judge based on first impressions. Nasuada herself had misjudged his skills based on his behavior, which he saw as a fatal flaw to any leader. As opposed to that, Dovahkiin was immediately reminded of Jarl Elisif. He had never met someone who could play the 'underestimate me' card quite as well as her.

_She was sitting on the throne stiffly, looking remarkably out of place. He indeed looked like a ruffian, coming from long days of travel, his hood hiding his face. Falk Firebeard didn't even spare him a second glance – as opposed to the guards, who immediately moved their hands to the pommels of their swords. It did not escape him that Elisif, as opposed to her steward, sent quick, scrutinizing glances his way, seizing up every last detail._

_"We need someone to investigate!" the hysterical farmer all but yelled._

_"Then we will immediately send out a legion to scour the cave and secure the town. Haafingar's people will always be safe under my rule."_

_The way she said 'Haafingar's people' and not 'the Nords' pleased him, somehow. Like Balgruuf, she seemed to care about the hold populace, be they farmers or noble, Nords or Mer. No wonder they called her 'Elisif the Fair' – not only she did look fair, she was also good at heart._

_"Perhaps a more... tempered reaction... might be called for?" Falk suggested._

_"Oh. Yes, of course you are right. Falk, tell Captain Aldis I said to assign a few extra soldiers to Dragon Bridge." She replied awkwardly._

_It really did seem she had no idea what she was doing. She looked like a woman who was attempting to fill her husband's place – and failing miserably._

_"Thank you, Jarl Elisif. But about the cave..."_

_She shot Dovahkiin a helpless look and he couldn't help what he did next._

_"I'll do it. I'll take a look at the cave for you."_

_It turned out some fools were actually trying to bring Potema Septim back to life, and once he was done explaining what he'd found to the Jarl and Falk, she said she would want a word in private with him. He followed her to a room, under the watchful eyes of the guards and the steward. After securing they were alone, she spoke again._

_"Take off the hood," she ordered._

_"I'm not sure I should -"_

_"Off with it!"_

_He didn't want her to make a ruckus that would draw the guards' attention, so he dropped the hood, revealing his face. Her eyes suddenly lit up._

_"I remember you from the Thalmor Embassy."_

_Ah, shit. He'd politely talked to her at the party, to keep up the appearances._

_"There was a break in that day. It was you, wasn't it? The Thalmor are on your trail."_

_Ah, shit, shit, shit._

_"Ahm..,"_

_She crossed her arms and locked gazes with him._

_"Were you successful?"_

_Wait, what?_

_"I beg your pardon?"_

_"Did you take what you needed?"_

_He just nodded, wondering at her intentions. Did she want a confession? It didn't matter to him; it wasn't like the Thalmor actually needed an excuse to send assassins his way._

_"Good. Very, very good. Now tell me, what was it? What did you take?"_

_He scrunched his eyebrows in confusion. "You…won't hand me in?"_

_"Why would I possibly do that?"_

_Because you are a puppet of the Thalmor, he thought, bud didn't say. Instead, he shrugged._

_"If you cooperate, I can throw them off you."_

_That got his attention. If she wanted to arrest him, she would already have, he reasoned with himself. Still, he did not understand what she wanted. He decided to test her._

_"I'm the Dragonborn."_

_And then she actually laughed._

_"It seems luck has smiled on me. How about we help each other? You and I give those elves quite a headache by ourselves; imagine what we could do together?"_

_Not only she'd seen through his simpleton disguise on first glance, she had actually played the same trick on him, and on everyone else, elves included. He would bet she's been sabotaging the Thalmor from behind for a while. She was not the insecure, clueless Jarl people believed her to be, far from it._

_Dovahkiin smiled. He had much to learn from her._

He felt a surge of interest and realized Saphira hadn't left his mind.

_"What a cunning woman,"_ The dragon commented, having watched his memory.

_"Elisif is quite something," _he agreed.

Finally, Orik reached the throne and knelt on one knee, bowing his head. As he entered the room, fancy little flower petals begun to fall from the top of the city, and soon Dovahkiin was covered in them and smelled rather flowery.

The children behind Orik reached him and stood motionless. Dovahkiin curiously turned his attention back to the ceremony. One of the dwarves stepped forward and walked to the right side of the throne. He had a staff, which he lifted over his head and brought down on the floor. Then, he started talking.

_"I don't speak gibberish, Saphira. What is he saying?"_

_"I do not speak dwarvish either."_

He listened without understanding, until abruptly, the language shifted to something really similar to Ehlnofex. He redoubled his attention to try and understand the words through the heavy accent.

"Gûntera, creator of the heavens and earth and - _something_ - sea, hear now the cry of your – _something _- servant!"

He didn't know all the words, but the general meaning was clear – they were summoning something, a god by the looks of it. The dwarf kept taking.

"We thank you for your - _something._ Our race - _something_. This and every year, we have offered you the finest -_something -_ of our –_something- _and also -_something- _of _– something- _mead _– something something something - _"

In retrospect, maybe he should have dedicated himself a bit more to the study of the ancient elven language. On the other hand, he did get all the important words – 'mead', for instance. The priest was apparently thanking the god for something, blessings probably, and listing their offerings.

Dovahkiin found that more than a little confusing –Hircine had told him this word had no presence of Aedra or Daedra, and as a general rule, the Princes did not lie. They twisted the truth, hid information and used word tricks, but never a straight out, plain lie. Why would Hircine lie to him about that? He did not understand. Besides, what was the point of listing off the offerings? Of course the gods knew what they were offered.

"O -_something- _Gûntera, king of the gods -"

Dovahkiin wondered whether Gûntera was actually another aspect of Akatosh. But that wouldn't make sense, because if Akatosh was there, so were the others, and then the veils to Oblivion wouldn't be so easy to cross as they were when he summoned the Hunger. And the seat of king of the gods was unquestionably Akatosh's.

"Will you _–something - _to bestow your blessing upon Orik, Thrifk's son, and to crown him in the tradition of his –_something- ?_"

Then Dovahkiin saw an invisible mass begin to form, perceptible through the disturbance in the falling petal's trajectory. The petals outlined the creature, some sort of invisible being with arms and legs but odd proportions. Then the thing begun to emit a slight glow, making the gigantic shape clearer.

_That's no Aedra._

He had no idea what it was, but it was definitely not an Aedra. Firstly, the Divines did not physically manifest. Secondly, when they did walk Mundus, it was not because a priest called or because a king was to be crowned; it required much direr events – Mehrunes Dagon stomping down the Imperial City, for instance. And, in the rare occasions they did appear, their intentions were very clear and so were their shapes – an Aedra wouldn't appear as a shady watery thing, but rather as a flaming dragon.

But mostly, Dovahkiin could tell it was not a Divine because it didn't feel like one. Sharing Akatosh's blood made him react strongly in Aedric presence and being this close to one should have made The Song explode in his head, at least as loud as it did when fighting a dragon; instead, it didn't even hum like it had in Sovngarde. And it didn't agitate his dragon soul, either.

His mind was touched by what had to be the creature, and Dovahkiin immediately blocked it out. Whatever that was, he didn't want it messing with his head. The dwarves sunk to their knees, and the thing spoke. Dovahkiin didn't know what it was saying – it talked in the same gibberish as the other dwarves – but its voice sounded somewhat like the grinding of stones or the wind over mountains.

He knew Kyne did that - speak through the winds. But that was definitively not Kyne and the one other being Dovahkiin knew that literally spoke through nature was Hircine, but that creature was not daedra, either. If it was, it would have created such a disturbance crossing from Oblivion, it would be unmistakable, especially with his dragon blood. Besides, daedra did not crown kings.

Three times, the being questioned Orik and the dwarf answered. Then, it placed his forefingers over the dwarf's head and materialized a crown there. It slapped its belly and laughed, and then it faded away. Dovahkiin paid even closer attention this time, but did not feel any sort of connection with Oblivion. Trumpets blared and Orik walked over to the throne and sat. The dwarves cheered.

"All hail King Orik!" cried Eragon, and Saphira released a jet of flame over the heads of the dwarves. Dovahkiin wondered whether he should do that, too.

The other dwarves approached Orik one by one, probably pledging themselves to him. Then the king gestured toward Eragon and the boy approached and swore to serve and protect him. After Eragon, others approached; everyone seemed eager to lick the new king's boots. Dovahkiin soon noticed they would do this for hours, and then, if he had heard correctly, there would still be a session of gift-giving.

If he had to sit quietly and wait through all that, he'd go insane. Instead, he backed slowly, looking from side to side. When he was sure no one was watching, he quietly sneaked out of the room and into a nearby hallway. He knew he risked getting lost, but he trusted in his sense of direction – years of dungeon diving meant he didn't get lost very often. Plus, he did have a natural aptitude when navigating, almost as if he had an inner compass.

He let his feet guide him, wandering aimlessly, for almost an hour. Then, as he made a sharp turn to the right, he stumbled upon a great building. He walked in, looking around in awe. Gigantic pillars supported a ridiculously high roof, and the place was adorned by tall statues. It could only be one thing – a temple.

Tronjheim itself hadn't impressed him, but these sculptures certainly did. They were done in high detail, each little piece carefully crafted and polished into perfection. It was almost as if the stone would literally come to life. He walked from one to the other, until he reached the end of the room, where he found a statue of a dwarf in a throne. From the looks of it, that had to be –

"Gûntera," A voice said from behind him, almost making him jump out of his skin.

He turned back to see the priest who had done the summoning during the coronation. He seemed old and frail, but Dovahkiin knew better than to judge a potential enemy on appearances - the dwarf's staff, he noted, was far from harmless, with two blades on the ends.

"It's beautiful," He commented.

He heard a grunt from the priest. "Do you worship any gods, young man?"

Strictly speaking, he didn't; he wasn't a worshipper but rather a champion - he acted on behalf of Aedra and Daedra alike. He prayed, of course, receiving blessings from the Divines, and also struck deals with the Princes more often than he'd like, but did not actually adore them – he was just too close to the gods for that. Besides, his soul was already claimed anyway, so any sort of worship would really be pointless.

"It's…complicated."

The dwarf's gaze softened. "It is never simple, is it?"

He didn't answer, and the priest looked at him expectantly, as if waiting for an answer. With a sigh he sat down, slouching against the pedestal of Gûntera's throne. He tried to elaborate on what he felt without giving away much.

"Sometimes I feel like I am just a plaything to the gods."

The priest smiled. "Ah, but aren't we all?"

He couldn't really help the surge of frustration that took over him. Unlike Martin Septim, who had been a priest before becoming a champion, already dedicating his life to Akatosh anyway, Dovahkiin never even saw it coming. The Divine wasn't exactly the most rewarding patron, being quite manipulative in its own way. While a daedra would tempt him with promises of power in exchange for doing their dirty jobs, Akatosh had been much more…subtle.

The Divine had shoved the power into Dovahkiin without really asking anything, and then dropped a bunch of tasks on his lap without any kind of explanation. Reward first, so that he would have no choice but to do what was wanted of him – if only because no one else could. It was incredibly smart, because Dovahkiin never really got the chance to say 'No'.

"Some more than others," he snapped.

The dwarf moved, sitting down next to him. "And would you have it any other way?"

Would he? He didn't know. He wasn't one to dwell on the 'ifs'; he'd certainly go mad if he did. But would he have it any other way? Would he rather live in a world with no gods at all? He knew the answer to that immediately.

"No."

Besides, despite everything, Akatosh wasn't such a bad patron to have. Irritatingly absent, yes, but it could be much worse. He was reminded of Peryite's Afflicted, whose execution was ordered by their Prince without a second thought; even Miraak was quickly discarded by Mora. He thought of Serana and her ties to Molag Bal and his heart clenched. Yes, there were definitively worse gods to serve.

"Then you'll just have to accept your lot in life," The priest replied.

Dovahkiin shrugged. "I suppose I already have. Still, I feel like whining about it every now and then, just for the sake of it. Maybe the gods will hear me and give me a break for once."

"Oh? How has that worked so far?" The dwarf questioned amusedly.

"Well, here I am, aren't I? So it obviously hasn't worked."

The priest laughed and Dovhakiin smiled despite himself.

"Shouldn't you be at the celebration?" He asked, changing subjects.

"Shouldn't you?" The priest shot back.

"I'm not a dwarf," he pointed out. The elder sighed.

"No one will miss poor old me. Besides, someone has to pray for the new king's success, for he will surely need it."

There was a certain bitterness to his tone that told Dovahkiin not everyone was happy with their new monarch.

"You do not approve of him?" he questioned.

"I cannot say I agree with King Orik's stance on the war; I'd rather our people not to be involved at all. But I do understand his point of view, and I will have to go along with it whether I like it or not."

"It is never simple, is it?" Dovahkiin teased, turning the priest's words against him. The dwarf smiled then shook his head in wonder.

"Truth is, I just don't know. I don't know what is right or wrong anymore, what to think or do. I wonder…"

The priest stopped. Dovahkiin raised an eyebrow at him, urging him to continue.

"Have you ever thought about -" The dwarf stopped again. "Imagine if there was a place where all knowledge in the world was stored, some sort of giant library of the gods. It has to exist, somewhere, and I just wish I could go there, if only for a moment, and take a little peek."

"No, you don't." Dovahkiin's response was immediate.

It was the priest's turn to look puzzled. "Why not? Imagine the wonders such place would hold!"

"No. If anything, it would be the most horrible of all places."

The dwarf tilted his head in confusion. "Why would you say that?"

Because he'd seen it for himself, that's why. Dovahkiin had never been to the Deadlands, but even so, he dared say that the title of owner of the worst Oblivion plane should go not to Dagon, as everyone claimed, but actually to Hermaeus Mora. There simply couldn't be anywhere more abominable than Apocrypha. What made it even worse was that a place with infinite knowledge should be something good, yet it just wasn't.

"Because…" He thought about how to explain what he'd felt in Mora's lair. "Because knowledge is power, and power corrupts. A place that held such knowledge would also be the most corrupt of all."

The priest stared at him in surprise, as if he'd just pointed out something that should be obvious. "I've never looked at it that way… You've given me a lot to think about, young man."

"And you've heard me whine, Ser Priest, so I suppose we are even."

"Call me Gannel," the dwarf replied.

As much as he was enjoying the conversation with the priest, Dovahkiin reckoned he should probably get going if he wanted to keep traveling – the ceremony was probably over by then, and he didn't put it past Eragon to leave him behind.

"There is one more thing I need to ask of you, Gannel. Would you be so kind as to give me the directions to Saphira's chambers? I am afraid I might be lost."

He made his way through the twisting tunnels, climbing up steep stairs. He walked for what felt like hours, counting on Gannel's directions to guide him. Just when he was about to admit he was definitely lost, the passageway widened and opened, and he saw he'd reached his destination – the Dragonhold. His sense of timing was as always impeccable – he stepped in just as the rider finished an incantation and Nasuada's face appeared on a mirror.

"Ready my Blades, Delphine, I am going hunting!" He theatrically greeted from the doorway, startling Eragon.

Nasuada scowled and opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, he interrupted.

"Mission accomplished, my Lady. Your rider in shining armor is safe and whole. You are right, of course - it would be unfortunate indeed, if something were to happen to him."

He smiled innocently. His tone was light but the threat was clear – if Nasuada blew his cover to Eragon, bad things would happen. She narrowed her eyes and clenched her teeth.

"Good. Keep it that way." She snarled forcefully, then, ignoring him, faced Eragon. "How long until the rest of the dwarves' armies will be able to join us?"

Dovahkiin half-listened as Eragon gave his reports, attentive to any sign that Nasuada might be trying to give him away. He spotted Saphira eyeing him fiercely from the spot she laid on. Suddenly, Eragon said something that caught his attention. The boy wanted to make a stop and visit his masters before going back to the Varden. That was fine with Dovahkiin, except said teacher was apparently an elf, which meant they would go to elf-land.

That might be troublesome.

"Ellesméra ," He interrupted Eragon and Nasuada's fierce discussion, "Isn't that where the elves live?"

"Yes, what about it?" Eragon snapped.

"Just wondering" Dovahkiin waved it off, letting the two of them return to their argument.

It's not that he didn't like elves. Really. Most Dunmer and Bosmer were fine, and he didn't even mind the Altmer as individuals, especially the young, more open minded ones. Even if 'open-minded' meant accepting not only Altmer but also Bosmer as 'superiorly bred mer '.

He honestly believed not every elf was bad; yes, every high elf thought themselves superior to other races, but some were content with living together with the 'inferiorly bred men' without necessarily obliterating them or their culture.

Justiciar Ondolemar, for instance, wasn't that bad; Dovahkiin had asked him to spare Ongmund, even though the justiciar had clear evidence of the man's Talos worship, and to his utter surprise, Ondolemar let the man off with only a warning. They have been sort-of-friends since then, as much as possible when it came down to a Nord and a Thalmor.

The elf had a condescending attitude but that didn't bother him much – he actually found it amusing. Ondolemar seemed to regard him as a particularly bright beast, and the expression on the Thalmor agent's face when Dovahkiin said or did something smart was enough to pay for all the times he heard the elf discourse about Altmer superiority. Ondolemar was much like Arya in that aspect – arrogant and snobbish but it was okay, because they didn't want the complete annihilation of mankind.

Still, it was one thing to befriend the nice justiciar or the troublesome elf-princess, and another completely different one to go to this world's version of the Summerset Isles. Even if the elves there were completely different, even if no one knew he was Dragonborn, even then, going to the elven homeland was something that just couldn't possibly end well.

He was brought out of his thoughts by Eragon, who rushed him to climb on Saphira. He hopped behind the rider and soon the two of them were in the air. Saphira flew higher than usual this time, and he felt the temperature around him drop to freezing point. He noticed Eragon had cast a warming spell around himself, but Dovahkiin didn't bother with one; he actually liked the cold.

They did not exchange a single word for the whole day; Eragon made no attempts at communication and Dovahkiin was happy in being left alone to enjoy the flight. On the second day of travel, they met a headwind that slowed them to half their usual pace, and Dovahkiin could see Saphira was struggling hard with it. Eragon suggested her to stop, which she promptly denied.

_"My ancestors, the wild dragons, would not have shrunk from a puny breeze like this, and neither will I."_

Dovahkiin smiled. He could not help but think the dragon was trying to impress her fellow Dovah. He could have used Clear Skies to ease the journey, but he chose not to rob her of the challenge.

Eragon finally spoke to him then, apparently having ended his mental contact with Saphira in order not to distract her from the flight.

"Listen, if you are going with us, there are some things you must know. The elves have a highly complex courtesy system and they'll expect you to know at least the basics -"

It was all he could do not to laugh. The very idea that he would actually care about elven courtesy was hilarious.

There was a millennia long feud between the Dragonborn and elvenkind, which started when Alessia rebelled and led a rebellion against the Ayleid. And while the dragon blood gift was quite obscure and sometimes showed up in individuals completely unrelated to one another, he could not recall a single time when a Dragonborn and the Aldmeri Dominion actually had a good relationship.

Dovahkiin's relationship with elvenkind was particularly bitter. They had hunted down the Blades, _his _Blades, his inheritance as Dragonborn. They had outlawed the worship of Talos, _his_ predecessor. The Aldmeris were ruled by the Thalmor, who very openly wanted the enslavement, if not the eradication, of all races of men, of which he was part of.

" …and twist your hand like this – Are you even listening to me?" Eragon snarled.

"Not really," Dovahkiin replied casually. The boy went livid.

"I will not have you shame me and the Varden with your uneducated -"

He decided he'd have enough of this kid's elf-loving righteousness.

"Now you'll listen to me, Eragon. I'm Stormcrown. They're elves. There's bad blood between us. So much bad blood, 'courtesy' to each other means not killing on sight. So it doesn't matter if I go in carrying the evil king's head on a plate, they'll hate me all the same."

Eragon frowned. "In all of my studies, I have never heard of a feud between the elves and the Stormcrown. In fact, I've never read anything about the Stormcrown at all. What are you, a clan?"

The way he said 'clan' made it sound he really meant 'tribe'. As if the Dragonborn were some sort of indigenous mad Forsworn who pointlessly fought the poor superiorly educated elves. As if they were nothing more than a minor nuisance for the superiorly bred Mer.

"We are individuals touched by the gods, not necessarily related to one another. But as a general rule, elves don't like us and we don't like them." He snarled.

Never mind all the bad blood happened in another completely different world; forgetting a four thousand year old feud wasn't exactly easy.

"They don't like you because you claim to be touched by gods, and elves don't believe in them," Eragon explained.

There it was. Elves in Tamriel didn't like the Dragonborn because they _knew_ those with dragon blood were touched by the gods, something only the high and mighty Altmer could possibly claim. Because how dare him, a Nord, claim to share Auri-el's blood? Humans were _creations_ of the gods, not descendants to them.

And elves in Alagaesia wouldn't like him either, because he was touched by gods they did not believe in.

"They will believe when they see me, and it will only make it worse," Dovahkiin snarled.

"How is that so?" Eragon questioned.

"Because they are right; they have no gods. But I do. I am just human, just mortal, yet I have gods, and they don't."

"Can you prove that?" Eragon challenged.

"Yes." He said simply.

Under them, he felt Saphira shudder with exhaustion. He had to admit she was tough; even Tamrielic dragons would struggle with such winds. Or not struggle with them – they had the Thu'um after all.

"Well?" Eragon prompted. "Prove it to me, then."

Maybe he could do both things – give the dragon a little break and show her rider he was right. He closed his eyes and felt the air slap his face harshly. He took a deep breath, listening to the howling of the wind, but as hard as he tried, he could not hear Kyne's voice. At that moment, he felt very, very homesick.

He exhaled, then pulled the air in sharply.

_"Lok…Vah Koor!"_

His Voice cut through the air, defying nature, daring the air to push against him. A second passed, then another, and then the howling quieted and the winds subsided to nothing more than a breeze. He opened his eyes to see a flabbergasted Eragon stare at him, his mouth hanging open.

"How -"

"They don't call us 'Stormcrown' for nothing." He snapped triumphantly.

Eragon was about to ask more, but Dovahkiin interrupted him before he could utter another word. With the skies clear, he could see much farther. He pointed at the approaching glints of green in the horizon.

"Seems we've reached elf-land," He pointed out.

_I just hope being friends with their princess will save my hide._

If luck was on his side, he'd get out of this one alive. Maybe.

_Hey Nocturnal, have I told you how much I love you today?_

**_Well, damn. I'm so sorry I took forever to update. You guys know know it is - school. The thing about school is, it not only absorbs all my time, it also makes me want to dig my own grave and jump in. No, seriously, school murders my creativity._**

**_Anyway, about this chapter. I was going to have him go there and drink with the dwarves, but then I realized if I wanted to have them in schedule for the battle of Feinster, they'd have to leave right away. So I had him have a little talk with Gannel instead. I think in the books Gannel becomes sort of a villain for not wanting Orik ot be king and all, but no one really bothers to see his side of things. Of course he doesn't want his whole race to go to war, and I can't blame him._**

**_I just got myself the Dragonborn DLC and it's nothing short of amazing. Apocrypha completely blew my mind, and the fact that they used the Morrowind soundtrack almost brought me to tears. There will be spoilers for the DLC on this story, so you people consider yourselves warned._**

**_Thanks to everyone who read, favorited, followed and reviewed. I particularly like you guys with looooong, detailed reviews - they really shed some light on how am I doing and help me get the story going._**

**_As always, special thanks to ShadowedFang for beta-ing._**

**_Thanks for reading!_**


	14. Chapter 13

He stared at the elf.

The elf stared at him.

He and the elf stared at each other.

"I cannot guess what is making him so unresponsive," Eragon complained from his side.

They'd been standing there for at least an hour and Dovahkiin knew very well the reason the Keeper refused to let them pass. It turned out the elf was not called 'Gilderien the Wise' for nothing.

"Can't we just ignore him and go?"

Eragon gave him the bad eye. "No one is allowed to enter Ellesméra without his permission."

"Or else?"

"I don't know," Eragon grunted, "And I do not intend to find out."

The boy turned to the elf, who was blocking their way wordlessly.

"Gilderien-elda, please," Eragon said in the oddly accented Ehlnofex that Dovahkiin had noticed was what elves spoke around there. "My escort and I need to enter the city. May we pass?"

No answer. Dovahkiin didn't think he liked being referred to as 'Eragon's escort'.

"Oh for the love of Akatosh," he snarled, and then, struggling to remember his studies, switched to his own version of 'ancient elfish'.

"I'm not going to destroy the damn city," he said to the elf, then reconsidered. "I'll try not to, anyway."

Eragon's head snapped towards him, his mouth agape. "You speak the Ancient Language?"

Really? They called it 'the Ancient Language'?

"I speak Ehlnofex, which is ultimately where all the languages of men and mer derived from. It's also what they usually speak in Oblivion, which is why I learnt it in first place."

The boy frowned, giving him a confused look. Dovahkiin sighed.

"I speak the Ancient-er Language."

And then of course, he also spoke the Thu'um, which was even older, and following this logic, should be called the 'Ancient-er-er language'.

"And you did not consider telling me?" Eragon replied in a carefully controlled tone. Dovahkiin shrugged.

"I don't recall you asking me if I spoke any manner of Ancient Mer-ish."

Eragon clenched his fists and took a deep breath, struggling with his irritation, then stomped away from him and sat down on a fallen log. The boy closed his eyes and steadied his breath in apparent meditation.

"Well, since you do speak it, maybe you can talk with him yourself. Convince him to let you through."

Ah, yes, of course. Dovahkiin could have interceded long ago and spoken to the Keeper himself, but then again, Eragon had assumed he did not in fact speak any manner of Ancient Merish and done all the talking, so he hadn't bothered.

He turned to the matter at hand – the damn elf that would not let him pass.

"Listen, elf -" He begun.

"Gilderien," Eragon corrected. It was Dovahkiin's turn to contain his annoyance.

"Gilderien. May I pass?" He asked bluntly.

And then, at last, he heard the elf's voice. To his aggravation, the Keeper spoke in his mind, even though he was standing right there and could have opened his mouth and talked.

_"That depends on who you are and what you want, human."_

So Gilderien could call him 'human', but he could not call the Keeper 'elf'. How was that any fair?

"I'm Colin Stormcrown."

It did not escape him that the Ehlnofex word for 'Stormcrown' was actually 'Talos.' Blasphemy. Good thing Heimskr wasn't there to yell at him.

The elf raised his brows in a mixture of surprise and recognition.

_"I wonder…When I was but a child, my mother used to tell me tales of old…before Alagaesia was even born, of heroes who marched crowned by storms."_

"That is my kind, aye, but I am afraid you will have to give that a more metaphorical interpretation, because walking around with a perpetual storm following me just to keep up the name is utterly impracticable."

Besides, the hovering cloud of gloom was Arya's thing, not his.

"That much said, I have to admit that if your objective is mass annihilation, there is no better option than Storm Call."

The elf looked at him in amusement. _"And what is it that you seek then, Stormcrown?"_

"I want to get into the city. I thought that was obvious."

He saw Eragon lower his head into his hands in an exasperated double facepalm. Gilderien smiled in infinite patience. Dovahkiin supposed that if standing guard was the only thing one did for eternity, then they wouldn't mind a traveler wasting their time.

_"And what do you seek within?"_

How was that any of that elf's damned business? He was starting to understand how the Khajiit felt when they tried to enter a city.

"Easy sex. The women are beautiful and I just know they won't be able to resist my manliness, what with the male elves being so fruity and all." He snapped.

Eragon's head shot up immediately, eyes wide, and the look of horror on his face was priceless.

"Gilderien-elda, my deepest apologies -"

The keeper burst out laughing.

_"Mother used to say the storm-crowned heroes' greatest weapons were their tongues. I see she was right, as always."_

"Yes, I bet your mother loved my tongue," He replied sharply.

While Gilderien didn't appear to have heard his tease, Eragon seemed very close to throttling him.

_"Very few of us remember those stories now. Stories of the Old World… they stopped being told after the Dragon War."_

"Is that so? You should start telling them again. Tales from old story books have a strong tendency to come true and bite you in the ass - trust me on this one; I speak from experience."

The elf smiled again and opened his arms in a welcoming gesture.

_"Perhaps we should. You are quite bold, Blood-of-dragons, but not evil at heart, I believe."_

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure. Good and evil are all really relative things, you see -" He babbled.

_"You may pass." _Gilderien interrupted, "_But please do not let your hatred of the Fair Folk blind you."_

"'Hatred' is too strong of a word, don't you think? I prefer 'healthy dislike', or maybe 'absolutely justified suspicion'."

He didn't expect a reply, and never got one, for Gilderien simply faded away just as abruptly as he had materialized in front of them. Snorting, he wordlessly hopped back up on Saphira, Eragon following shortly behind.

As she took to the skies, flying over trees and trees and more trees, the boy gave him a hard lecture on manners, which he absolutely ignored, sightseeing the scenery instead. The place was a lot like Valenwood, except he hopefully wouldn't have to worry about man-eating Bosmer jumping him. After all, Alagaesian elves were _vegetarian_.

"What was all that about? What did Gilderien mean when he called you Blood-of-dragons?" Eragon questioned, finally realizing his reprimand fell on deaf ears.

"It's a long and complicated story." He spoke back absent-mindedly

"Try me," The boy challenged.

"I can't possibly sum up four thousand years of my people's lore in a couple of minutes," He retorted rashly.

"Can't you give me a simplified version of it?" The rider insisted.

"Very well. My father is a dragon."

"_What?!_"

He did technically have a human father, but since he'd never even met him, he preferred to consider himself a child of Akatosh, like the Dov did.

"I told you it was long and complicated."

Eragon gave him a look that must have meant something between 'You are mad' and 'This is madness'. Then he asked a question that had Dovahkiin laughing so much he almost fell down.

"What about your mother?"

He couldn't help but wish he was an Argonian then and there; it would have been so much more hilarious if he actually looked half-dragon. As to Eragon's question itself, it was an easy one to answer. Long studies on racial phylogeny dictated the child inherited the mother's race, with few traits from the father. He was a Nord, and therefore, his mother must have been one, too.

"She's human, of course. Good thing I took after her, eh?"

Eragon scowled at him. "You are fooling me. There is just no way it could be possible."

The look on his face coupled with the utter incredulity on his voice was enough to get Dovahkiin snickering again.

"Not the way you are thinking, no. I told you I couldn't give you four thousand years of lore in a sentence." A thought crossed his mind and he put on a wicked grin. "You'd better stop imagining things, else you'll give Saphira ideas."

Of course, ordering someone to 'stop imagining something' tended to have the exact opposite effect on the listener, and a protesting snarl from Saphira followed by her rider's ears going pink made him cackle even harder. Abruptly, the dragon initiated a descent and they landed with a loud thud. Eragon told him to get off and as he did, the boy spoke.

"We are going to meet with our mentors, whose identities must be kept secret. I'll have to leave you here. You can meet us at the dragon hold. Ask away, I'm sure someone can give you directions."

Before he could even finish processing the words, Saphira flapped, throwing him off balance, and flew away. He realized he had just been ditched. He was completely lost in an elven city, which meant anyone he tried to ask for help would very likely be an elf. He would rather not have to talk to any of them.

Without knowing where to go, he wandered in frustration for the better part of the day. The streets were blissfully empty, save from an elf or two who occasionally scurried around. When he sensed their approach, Dovahkiin would quickly and precisely delve into shadows, in order to avoid questioning.

He eventually found his way to the dragon keep without needing to ask anyone – the building was actually quite obvious. There, he saw a large open space, where Saphira would be, and one single bed – they weren't expecting Eragon to have any company. Dovahkiin supposed he could go out and look for trouble, but he was quite tired from the travel and besides, he had promised he wouldn't destroy the city, so he settled down in the bed and quickly fell asleep. He was rudely awakened hours later by the arrival of Saphira, something he was actually grateful for, because Vaermina had been having her fun with him.

He saw a gruff-looking Eragon hop off the dragon.

"Good," the boy said, "You're awake."

"Obviously. It is hard to stay asleep as a dragon lands right next to you."

"My masters want to meet you," The boy snapped.

Huh. Someone was having a bad day.

"As in, right now?" Dovahkiin asked.

"_Yes, _right now. "

He had half a mind to tell the rider to sod off and just go back to sleep, but then again, Vaermina was in an especially creative mood today, and he certainly didn't want to find out what else the daedra could come up with. He rose from the bed, fetched his gear and followed Eragon up onto Saphira's back. As they flew out, he was surprised to see the sun rising, which meant that Eragon and Saphira must have slept somewhere else, and he had fallen unconscious for almost fifteen hours through the whole late afternoon and night – without feeling even a little bit rested. _Why thank you, Vaermina._

They flew over the city and finally approached a hut on top of a mountain. Curled up around it was a dragon whose size and golden hue reminded Dovahkiin of the Elder Dragons back in Skyrim, and he made a mental note to try and not get in unnecessary trouble with this one. Deciding he needed a little refreshment, he jumped off Saphira while they were still as high as clouds.

He ignored Eragon's gasp of surprise as he fell, keeping his limbs close together to pick up speed. The wind roared in his ears and he laughed in glee as he felt the bottom of his stomach go all the way up his brain. He moved his body and aimed his fall in order to hit the ground right in front of the cabin, but realized too late he'd miscalculated and would actually hit the roof instead.

He briefly wondered what would happen if he switched one of the words of Dragon Aspect for 'wing'. Would he grow ethereal wings? Would he even be able to fly with that? How come there wasn't a Thu'um that gave him wings anyway? _That's because dragons already have them, imbecile._

Still, he really could use flying; dragons, especially the ones he had to hunt, had an uncanny tendency to stay on unreachable places. Besides, he wouldn't mind not having to climb seven thousand steps every time he wanted to have a word with the Greybeards. Perhaps he could make his own shout; 'wing, dragon, fly' might work. Of course, it could also accidentally summon a giant winged dragonfly to eat him alive. Come to think of it, the latter was probably likelier.

He was snapped back to reality as the roof grew dangerously close –

_"Feim!"_

He felt the molecules of his body disassemble, the forces that held him together simply let go. _Feim_ was one of those shouts with the oddest feel to it - as if he was going from the solid state to gaseous, which by all logical means should have killed him, but didn't. He was literally being vaporized. He looked at his hands, seeing them turn translucent blue – and the relation between 'ethereal' and 'blue' eluded him once more. Why not translucent red or translucent green –

He hit the roof, or rather, didn't. He went _through_ it, and watched with grim interest as the particles that made him up dodged the particles of the ceiling. He collided with a wooden beam vertically and his ethereal body split in half, only to reconnect itself a few centimeters below. Then, just as his feet hit the ground, his molecules reconnected and he solidified again.

"Damn," he gasped.

He _hated_ going through things. He heard Saphira land with a heavy thud, and hushed footsteps as Eragon approached. He noticed a stranger in the room, likely Eragon's mentor, who had long silver hair and similarly gray eyes and looked rather scrawny, seeming somehow unhealthy or perhaps just exhausted. It wasn't the boy's approach or the old elf that caught Dovahkiin's attention though, but rather the figure who gaped at him through a magical mirror.

Startling green irises locked with his and he held back a breath.

"You're the queen," He pointed out, still somewhat dazed, "Arya's mom."

He was stunned by the resemblance. He knew elves in this world didn't age – even back in Tamriel they had ridiculously long lifespans – but the queen just didn't look motherly at all. She seemed less like Little Elf's parent and more like her evil twin. They had the same green eyes, raven black hair, sharp features and even the same 'better-than-you' aura, except this woman took it to a whole new level.

The queen did not reply to his statement, instead looking at him in a mixture of surprise and disgust – as if she had just found an outrageous piece of meat that had just fallen from the sky into her vegan salad. It was the sort of look that prompted him to say something stupid.

"You look like Arya, except broodier." He paused, considering what he'd just said. "I didn't even know that was possible."

She sneered in a way that was absurdly Thalmor-ish.

"And who might you be, to make an entrance like that and speak with a queen in such daring manner?"

If her daughter was Ondolemar, then the queen was First Emissary Elenwen.

Eragon paused at the door, gasping, and looked at him with wide eyes.

"You're alive!" The boy exclaimed in a mixture of surprise and relief.

Dovahkiin rolled his eyes at the boy, then turned back to the queen.

"I'm Colin Stormcrown. You might have heard of me, from those reports you make your poor daughter do. She never did tell me your name, by the way."

Her eyes widened in in recognition and she gave him a perceptible once-over, as if comparing the information she had about him to his actual person. He felt somehow like a piece of machinery being inspected.

If her daughter's attitude was 'tolerable', the queen's was 'murder-inspiring'.

"So, did Little Elf's descriptions make me justice?"

She scowled. Apparently, she didn't like his pet nickname for her daughter, either. She and Eragon would make such a brilliant couple.

"She did mention your immature behavior."

"Did she also mention my stunning good looks?"

The queen closed her eyes and, taking a deep breath, massaged her temples with her fingers. So _that_'_s_ where Arya's little quirk came from.

"Why are you in Ellesméra and not among the Varden?" She demanded.

And she was damn bossy too. It was true that by default, Dovahkiin did not like elves, but this woman really wasn't helping.

"You mean you do not know? One would have thought you had a report about that." He provoked.

The queen opened her eyes and glared. It would have been unnerving if he wasn't used to being glared at by creatures with much more teeth than her.

"Arya has been quite…relapse with her reports lately."

He blinked, trying to grasp the truth behind her euphemism. And then, as realization struck him, he couldn't help it – he laughed in a delighted, light-hearted manner. Arya did listen to him, after all. It was so good to know Little Elf taking his very wise advice and flipping her work the finger.

"Is something funny?" She hissed.

"Life is funny, especially when the joke's not on me."

The queen clenched her fists. She looked as if she wanted to hit him, and she probably would have, if they weren't speaking through a mirror. Abruptly, the old elf next to them burst into light chuckles.

"Patience is a virtue, Islanzadí," the elf spoke for the first time.

Ah, so that was her name. She sighed.

"One I am yet to master, Oromis." She turned back to him. "Could you just be cooperative for a few moments?"

Dovahkiin gave her request a bit of thought.

"Nay, I don't think so. I am not too fond of elves, and while your daughter is okay, I don't think I like you. I have zero reasons to want to cooperate."

She scowled in distaste. "Very well. What do you want?"

He smiled. _Now_ they were talking.

"Ask it and I'll price it. You will give me your word the price will be paid. You may accept or refuse the deal, but you may not question the motives behind my requests."

She narrowed her eyes and he could see fury there. He bit back a mischievous grin.

"So be it," She snarled.

"Do I have your word?"

"I swear to fulfill your requests, should I find them reasonable," The queen replied in elfish.

He was reminded of how Arya did the same and how the oath had had some binding magic. It seemed to be some kind of peculiarity of the language – like how writing in Daedric runes immediately gave words a magical charge. Still, he was not satisfied with the queen's promise.

"No. You swear to fulfill my requests, should you accept the deal, regardless of your judgment. No loopholes here, milady."

He heard her slam her hand against a table. "This is absurd. You cannot expect me to compromise myself in such way -"

"Excuse me? All I am asking for is for you to keep your end of a bargain you do not even have to accept."

"And that is precisely what I'll do. I refuse your proposal."

Dovahkiin could tell she was bluffing – she just needed an extra push. He shrugged absent mindedly.

"Well, your loss. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll entertain myself by doing magic with no incantations and no visible energy source."

He lit up his fist in a Flames spell then slowly opened his hand, raising his fingers one by one and letting the fire jump from one to the other. Then, opening his other hand, he tossed a little fireball back and forth.

He could practically feel the curiosity radiating off both elves and the rider in waves. Pointing up his index finger, he let fire come off in a little spiral, then used Sparks to make electricity jump around, making a little tornado. That seemed to finally do it.

"Fine! I swear to keep my end of the bargain, should we strike a deal, despite what I think of it," She growled in elfish.

Dovahkiin was sure glad she made up her mind, because there wasn't much more he was able to do with magic – all those little tricks were actually extremely simple variations of the destruction spells; he'd learned them from J'zargo with the sole intention of impressing females – and it had worked like a charm. He'd have to thank the cat later.

He winked.

"Ask away then, milady."

He could see the storm of thoughts in her mind reflected in her eyes. Finally, she picked a question.

"Why are you in Ellesméra and not among the Varden?"

Easy one – he was expecting something much more metaphysical about the nature of his magical energy sources or something of the likes. Dovahkiin guessed the queen wanted to start out small. He made his request.

"You will not in any way order my restraint, assassination, or any kind of command that may bring me to imprisonment or bodily harm."

"Deal." She said, albeit with distaste. "Now answer the question."

"Nasuada and I had a disagreement and I decided my relocation would be the best course of action to preserve both of us healthy and whole. Beyond that, my own adventurous spirit called for new places."

"What?" Eragon protested, "But you told me you were here -"

" – Because of Nasuada. So you see, I said the truth."

"Spoken like an elf," Oromis commented.

That made Dovahkiin scowl.

"That may or may not have been an insult. Either way, I would rather not be compared to your kind."

"That doesn't make any sense," Eragon complained, "If you fought Nasuada, she would have told me -"

"Unless I was conveniently placed around as you talked and subtly threatened your life."

"_You_ as a threat to _my_ life?"

"Well, I did knock out some teeth of yours, so why not -"

"What was the argument over?" The queen interrupted impatiently.

He raised a halting hand.

"You will not in any way punish or lecture your daughter from skipping her reports. Furthermore, you will release her from doing any reports at all. It doesn't really matter if you pass on the task to another, just not her."

He was _such_ a good friend, bailing Little Elf out of her work. The confusion was clear in Islanzadí's face as she searched for the ulterior motivation behind his request. Eventually, she nodded in agreement.

"I cannot fathom the motives behind this request, and I do not like it. Still, you have a deal. Now, what was the reason of your disagreement with Nasuada?"

He scratched his stubble thoughtfully. He decided he'd be nice and give her a straight answer.

"I will not deny I have been quite troublesome ever since I've reached the Varden. This is because I do not appreciate the way every single person I meet immediately assumes to be better than I am. "

He cocked his eyebrows cynically and shifted his gaze from her to Eragon and then back to her.

"Perhaps I shouldn't call it an argument per se. I had been avoiding Nasuada for a while, and when she finally got hold of me, I was conveniently next to a departing Saphira, so I decided to accompany her in order to escape the incoming, unavoidable discussion."

He paused for a moment, thinking over his next words.

"Unfortunately, my intentions backfired, as Nasuada seemed to believe she was in position to forbid me to leave. At my denial, she decided she would restrain me instead. Suffice to say it did not work, and here I am."

"I see. Still, you did not answer the question itself. The, as you named it, 'incoming unavoidable discussion', what was it over?"

"Hmm, many things, I suppose. But mostly, I would guess Nasuada was quite unhappy because of mine and Saphira's … brawl."

"Ah, yes, I must admit I did not believe it when Islanzadí informed me about the outcomes," Oromis interjected. "Even now, it intrigues me. Your performance has made Glaedr quite curious."

_"Saphira's defeat, you mean"_, another voice, clearly male, was heard in his head for the first time.

It could only be the golden dragon, and its tone dripped with disapproval.

Something about another Dov talking down to Saphira made Dovahkiin incredibly irate. She was his_ Aar, _his servant, and _he_ would discipline her if he deemed necessary. He and no one else had this right – except maybe Odahviing, for being his Second. He felt his previous resolution about not picking unnecessary fights crumble.

"Think you would do any better?" He said loudly so that the dragon could hear.

He heard a ferocious growl.

_"Do not tempt me to eat you, hatchling."_

"What makes you think you will succeed where World-Eater himself failed?"

That seemed to catch the elf's attention.

"Peace, the two of you!" Oromis turned to him.

"As you have probably already noticed, Islanzadí had me informed about you, Colin. She requested me to do research on you and your powers. I did not find much, and even less of it made any sense. If you would please be willing to clarify…"

The queen narrowed her eyes. "You told me you had found nothing at all, Oromis."

"Nothing conclusive," The elf corrected.

He decided the old elf wasn't so bad after all. Oromis somehow reminded him of Paarthurnax – probably something to do with the 'old-and-wise' attitude they seemed to share. And the whole outwitting the mean queen was just a bonus.

And though the whole idea of giving away information away did not please him, he realized perhaps clearing the situation up and letting those people know who he really was might finally get him the respect he deserved. He sighed and walked to the middle of the room, where he took a seat on the closest chair. He nodded at the elf.

"Go on then– ask away."

Izlanzadi eyed him with incredulity.

"You will answer his questions? No price, no riddles, just like that?"

Dovahkiin shrugged.

"I can't help it. He said the supreme, all powerful magical word of words."

"Oh?" Oromis questioned curiously.

Dovahiin raised his hands and twitched his fingers, making quotes in the air.

_"Please."_

If looks could kill –

Oromis cleared his throat. "Though our archive is but a fraction of what it was before Galbatorix took Ilirea, there is still much to research on. When Arya mentioned in her reports your claim to be something called 'Dragonborn', I was immediately reminded of one of the newer pieces – an odd, prophetic sounding poem brought back by one of Arya's companions himself around two decades ago."

That piqued Dovahkiin's interest. "One of Little Elf's companions? Faölin, per chance?"

Oromis tilted his head. "Yes, indeed. He used to collect me reading material from his travels – he never forgot to bring me something every time he came to visit. I was surprised when he gave me this - he had a preference for texts of…dubious nature. "

He could almost imagine Faölin handing the old elf a worn out copy of 'The Lusty Argonian Maid'. And he could perfectly imagine Oromis' face afterwards. He held back a smile. Little elf's boyfriend had been a nice guy, and he honestly hoped she'd find someone like him again.

"I am surprised Arya mentioned him to you," the elf said in a questioning tone.

"She didn't say much," he dismissed, quickly changing subjects, "So, tell me, what have you got?"

"Yes, Oromis, what have you?" The queen prompted with impatience from the mirror.

The elf rose from his seat and moved around one of the shelves, until he finally came back to the table with a single sheet of paper.

"Faölin's story was that he got this one from a man living in an isolated tower, who had copied it over seemingly a thousand times in different languages, inks and papers."

"And what does it say?" Islanzadí insisted, her patience running thin.

Oromis shot her a bad look, but started reading anyway.

"It reads – _When misrule takes its place at the eight corners of the world -_"

"Oh, _no way,_" Dovahkiin interrupted. He knew those lines all too well.

"You have heard it before?"

"Damn right I have – way too many times for my liking. The man's name, was it Tenga?"

The elf shook his head. "I wouldn't know-"

"Did you say Tenga? " Eragon interrupted.

"You've met him?" Dovahkiin questioned.

"Briefly. He had a large repository of books and scrolls. And – ah! He could do magic without the Ancient Language, too, like you did. Are you two somehow related?"

"He's from my world. He might be the one who brought me here."

"From your world -?"

"Arya did mention that you were not from Alagaesia, amongst many other unbelievable things." The queen added.

"That's because I'm not. In your researches, did you ask anything to your Keeper? He seemed to know. He said tales of the old word stopped being told after the Dragon War. That's where I am from – what he called the old world."

Oromis nodded.

"Gilderien… It never occurred to me… But The Wise is not someone one can simply talk to. He was right about the Dragon War, however. I got all my remaining information from Rhunon."

At that moment, they were interrupted by voices. It took Dovahkiin a bit of looking around to realize they were actually coming from Islanzadí's mirror. She scowled.

"I am afraid I must take my leave – urgent matters are in need of my attention. I expect you to report to me on your findings, Oromis," She said in an authoritative tone.

"Of course, My Queen." The old elf replied, a slight hint of condescendence in his voice.

She did not reply; instead, the mirror blacked out for a couple seconds, and then all that was shown was the room's reflections. Oromis rose from his seat and to a nearby shelf, from where he pulled an ancient looking book. Dovahkiin managed to take a glimpse of the title, and for a long while, he just stared at it, trying hard to figure out the odd writings.

Then, finally, it clicked – the runes were not the elaborate elven letters he was used to from studying Ehlnofex, but rather a mix between those and the daedric ones. It was as if someone had taken the daedric alphabet and added a lot of curves and embellishments, taking off the rough edges and making it look rather text itself was written in the same elven language they spoke – 'The Ancient Language', and it read 'Mushroom-Dragon Jump food Elf'.

No, wait, that wasn't right.

He read it again, switching what he had thought was a distorted daedric _Yoodt _for the more unusual _Xayah. _Now, if that one rune was actually the usually omitted _Yahkem – _There it was. It now read 'Legends of the Greyfolk for the Juvenile Inquisitive Elf', which made more sense; he supposed that must be a fancy elven way of saying 'Stories for Kids'. Oromis flipped over the pages until he stopped at one. Deciding it would be too much trouble to try to decrypt the text, Dovahkiin moved over and sat down in a nearby chair.

"Stories like that were quite popular during the dragon war. They were banned by unspoken agreement after the peace treaty and the Blood-Oath, for obvious reasons."

"What does it say?" Dovahkiin asked

"The myth of the Dragonborn is one very commonly found amongst the Greyfolk. Being present even in communities without any apparent means of communication with one another, such a tale is widespread among Alalea and often told to young children. It is recognized as common folklore and its origins are speculated to be found on the mystification and fear caused by the Alalean native race, the drag -"

"Dear Divines, _that_ is a book for children? It sounds like an Arcane University master's essay!"

Eragon glared at him, but Oromis decided to jump to the point.

"The Dragonborn is told to be a rare individual born with the blood and soul of a dragon; according to myth, this provides them with the gift of the 'Dragon Tongue'. Though the term at first has no significant meaning, taking in mind the dragon's lack of clear language and speech, it is believed it might refer to a deep understanding of the particular draconic branch of magic. The blessing itself is said to be divine in nature -"

He paused for a moment, probably skipping a long dissertation about dragons, magic, gods, and some sort of incredibly complex metaphysical relation between the three.

"The most notable of the Dragonborn's powers, however, is the ability to consume a slain dragon's soul, thus absorbing its knowledge. Because of that, they are considered to be 'The Ultimate Dragon Slayers'." Oromis finished.

"Wow! Amazing story, papa! Can you tell it again?"

"Critics on elven literature aside, Colin, I find the contents of text to be quite disturbing."

"Indeed," Eragon agreed.

"What else have you?" Dovahkiin asked, wanting to know all they had before talking.

Oromis frowned in distaste, but flipped a page and this time, read it out loud.

"Still on the subject of Dragoborn individuals, one notable mention is that of the priest Miraak."

Dovahkiin stiffened. Of _all_ the Dragonborn stories, they just had to pick that one, didn't they? Oromis paused, noticing his discomfort.

"Is something the matter?" the rider asked.

"Nothing. It's just…not my favorite story, that's all. But, carry on"

The elf nodded before continuing.

"Miraak was originally a high-ranking member of the Dragon Priests – see chapter two – and is entitled to be the First Dragonborn. For reasons unknown, Miraak turned against his dragon masters and is said to have slain and consumed over a hundred dragon souls –"

_Do you ever wonder if it hurts, having your soul ripped out like that?_

The whole taking a dragon's soul thing sat very badly with Dovahkiin, because it was just _wrong_. He considered it something akin to cannibalism, and would rather not consume them if given the choice. And it didn't help that devouring a dragon's essence felt so delightfully good - the guilty pleasure made him feel like a sociopathic murderer.

That Miraak had slain and devoured over a hundred Dov without a second's hesitation left him nauseated. That Dovahkiin himself had taken Miraak's soul himself, indirectly consuming dozens of dragons, directly consuming _another human's essence _-

"Are you feeling fine? You look a bit sick."

"Yes." He closed his eyes, only to see Miraak's mask glare at him from over the priest's picked-clean bones.

"On second thought, no. Vahlok defeated him. "

"I beg your pardon?"

"Another Dragon Priest, Vahlok the Jailor, defeated Miraak. End story. Now can we please move on to another subject?"

Oromis lifted a quizzical eyebrow, and then skimmed through the text, apparently confirming what he had said.

"There is still a final note here." He commented. "Traditional Greyfolk storytellers seem to always end Miraak's tale with a specific closing line, though its meanings still elude us. 'And when the world remembers, The First shall meet The Last -"

" – at the summit of Apocrypha." Dovahkiin finished.

"Does 'The Last' refer to -"

He opened his eyes to glare at the elf. "The same poor sod from the other prophecy, yes – it must absolutely _suck_ to be him."

"It is you, isn't it? You are the man from the book."

"Colin Stormcrown, Last Dragonborn, at your disposal. Services include fetching things, dungeon-diving, finding lost people, slaying dragons and doing fundamentally anything. Extra charges if I have to leave my world to do it - unless you happen to be a stunning vampire lady. Then it's all for free."

"What about the others, though?" Oromis asked, ignoring his witty comeback.

"The others?"

"The book goes on about other Greyfolk myths and prophecies – for instance, one about three elves who steal the power of the gods."

"The Tribunal," Dovahkiin mused. "Who are these Greyfolk?"

"In the beginning, were the dwarves and dragons, both native to Alagaesia. The Greyfolk were the first race of outsiders to migrate to the land, followed by the elves and then the humans," Oromis explained.

He added that bit of information to the puzzle in his head. He was gradually forming up a hypothesis on how this world came to be. If he had to guess, he would say the Greyfolk were actually people from Tamriel, possibly members of one of the not so uncommon Moth Priest scroll-searching groups.

"What happened to them?"

"Extinguished themselves doing a spell of magnanimous proportions. But, enough about that. My book, does it tell the truth?"

"It has been quite accurate from what I've heard."

"Would you explain some points?"

Dovahkiin gestured for the elf to continue.

"From the beginning, then. What is this about blood and soul of a dragon? Saphira did mention you speaking in an unknown language which she had an innate understanding of."

"The Thu'um, aye. It should be natural to any dragon. About my blood and soul… it was a gift from the gods – or a curse, depending on how you see it. From Akatosh, more specifically. "

"So you believe your powers to be directly linked with your religious belief?"

"I _know_ they are. Dragonborn belong to Akatosh like were-beasts do to Hircine or Nightingales to Nocturnal – except the last two get to have a choice in the matter. Usually."

"I see," the elf replied, a slightly patronizing tone in his voice. "But, do you have any proof?"

Dovahkiin frowned.

"I don't like where this is going. Last time a conversation went this direction, it was with Arya and I ended up with a giant demonic wolf ripping my head off – and that was _before_ things went really bad."

"What did you do to her?" Eragon growled.

"I didn't do anything to her – she's a very capable grown woman and can do whatever she wants. We got in trouble, together."

He put some emphasis on the 'together' part.

"And what, pray tell, did the two of you do? You've perked my curiosity."

Dovahkiin considered his request.

"You'll have to ask her for the whole story; there are parts of it I believe she would rather keep to herself. But, to sum it up, we figured out the divinities problem. There are gods from where I come from, but none here."

"And Arya agreed to that? _Arya?_" Eragon questioned skeptically.

Oromis seemed to mirror the boy's surprise; Little Elf had quite the heretic unbeliever reputation.

"My brilliant articulation of irrefutable arguments left her with no room for discussion."

The elder lifted both his eyebrows at Dovahkiin's mock-tone.

"I would sure like to hear those arguments."

"It was more of a… practical demonstration."

"Oh?"

"We went off to summon a god," He clarified.

That got both his questioners visibly off guard – probably because Arya wasn't the kind of person to agree to something like that.

"And did it work?"

"_Of course_ it worked. Where do you think the giant demonic wolf came from?"

The elf leaned back against his chair, looking impressed. "It seems Arya and I have a lot to discuss."

Dovahkiin abruptly turned serious. He had met a depressed Little Elf, and Oromis was not a bad listener, which meant she hadn't told him anything. He leaned forward on the table, bringing himself closer to the elf.

"Do not press her," he all but snarled.

Oromis widened his eyes and raised his brows, surprised. "I would never – she'll only tell me what she wants."

He held the elf's gaze for a second. Two. Three.

He resumed his previous slouchy seating position, satisfied. The elder shifted uneasily then cleared his throat before shooting out the next question.

"You mentioned not being from this world."

"It is…complicated."

Oromis rose from his seat and shuffled around, returning with a teapot and three cups; he poured some tea, then handed it to Dovahkiin. What a nice little elf – actually serving him tea instead of demanding to be served. Once he was done giving Eragon his share, the elder picked his own cup and sat back down.

"Go on, you have my attention."

Dovahkiin sipped some tea – it tasted sweet and had an energizing feel to it; a bit like a stamina potion, but without the charred-skeever-sabre-cat-eye flavor.

"I'm not an academic on it, but it goes more or less like this: there are three planes – Oblivion, Aetherius and Mundus, which is where mortals live. Think about the sea – the water is Oblivion, the sky is Aetherius, and the islands are Mundus. I crossed through Oblivion from Nirn - another island, so to say."

"That's an interesting concept," Oromis said. "What lives in the other planes?"

"The gods do. On Aetherius, you have the Aedra; on Oblivion, the Daedra."

The elf seemed to think that over, and for a while, no one talked.

"And do you plan on returning to your own world?"

"I was summoned here, though I do not know for sure by whom. I'm assuming my purpose here is to aid on your war, and thus I shall be returned to my world once it's over."

"And if you don't?"

The question got him off guard; Dovahkiin hadn't thought that far ahead. He considered it for the first time. What if he wasn't returned to Nirn when all this was over? He wasn't staying in Alagaesia, no way.

"I'll open an Oblivion gate and cross back. That will possibly leave your world open to invasions by hordes of demons, and you'd need someone to go in and close it." He turned to Eragon. "Probably you. Go for the big tower – that's usually your best shot at closing them."

Martin Septim had needed many impossibly rare ingredients to open a gate, but Dovahkiin doubted he would need nearly as much. Even before the last Septim's sacrifice, opening a portal has always been incredibly hard in Tamriel, and Martin wanted to go to a specific plane. Dovahkiin, on the other hand, was on a world with zero Aedric protection, and just wanted to go anywhere in Oblivion.

He reckoned he would be able to open a Gate simply by smashing a Sigil Stone. Acquiring it would be the hard part, but that could be achieved by summoning a Dremora and beating it into submission. The daedra would be bound to his service, and all he had to do was command it to fetch him the Stone. It might take him a while, but if he did enough accidental-on-purpose summons, a Dremora would eventually come out.

Once he was inside, all he had to do was call on Durnehviir to guide him back to the Soul Cairn, and, from there, it would only be a matter of reaching the staircase and coming out in Castle Volkihar. He knew Serana always left that gate open for her mother to go and harvest souls and besides, even if she didn't, she would eventually notice his prolonged absence and open it for him – she was sharp; she knew it would be his way out if he ever got lost in Oblivion.

If that didn't work, he could always go through Apocrypha and into Solstheim – which he wanted to avoid for obvious reasons – or even ask Nocturnal for passage through Evergloam and into the Twilight Sepulcher; he wanted to avoid asking Princes for favors, but if he really had to, Nocturnal was probably the one who would screw him the least.

"I believe I speak for all of Alagaesia when I ask you to please refrain from releasing hordes of hostile creatures upon us," The elf said.

"I regret to inform I'll do whatever it takes to get back home. But, on the bright side, there is no better chance for Eragon to man up; you can't call someone a real hero until they've messed with the forces of Oblivion at least once."

"Is opening such portals as simple as that?" Oromis questioned before Eragon got a chance to retaliate.

"It is everything but simple, and the stakes of me getting killed whilst attempting it are actually very high. Which, come to think of it, is nothing out of my routine."

The elf smiled then, as if recalling an amusing memory. Oromis approached and took them on his own, scrutinizing the lines that run through his skin.

"Can I see your hands? I find it they say much about a person."

He gave the elder an odd look but extended his hands anyway.

"Now, correct me if I am wrong. You write and draw quite a lot – I can see it from your nimble fingers."

It wasn't very far off; Dovahkiin did enjoy drawing and studying, and he had the habit of keeping a journal, if only to know what he had to fetch for whom. But the elf did ask for corrections, and if he were to be honest, the skill held by his trained fingers had a much better explanation.

He put on a toothy grin.

"It's not as much about the writing as it is about picking locks. And pockets."

The elf gave him a slightly reproachful look, but otherwise did not comment on his criminal habits.

"You prefer the sword, though you can also use a bow."

"I can mostly use any weapon and anything as a weapon; I'm not usually allowed to be picky. But when I can choose, I do prefer one-handed swords." He tapped Dawnbreaker's hilt. "This one's been with me for quite a while; hasn't' let me down yet."

Oromis nodded. "And finally, you're either incredibly unlucky, fight like a madman, or deliberately look for trouble. From what I've seen of your behavior, I'd guess the latter."

Eragon narrowed his eyes at that, and he guessed the rider had heard something similar. His smile widened.

"I don't look for trouble, trouble looks for me. I just don't hide from it."

"That's not what I've seen so far. I would actually expect one with your attitude to carry much more scars than you do."

Dovahkiin scowled. "I wouldn't have to pick fights with everyone if they didn't immediately assume they are better than me. And if I'm not scarred all over, it is because said people tend to make the wrong assumptions."

He omitted the fact that he had spent a good amount of time mastering the arts of Restoration and would probably look very similar to a Draugr if he hadn't – missing body parts and overall very dead.

"You do seem to think quite highly of yourself," Eragon prodded sharply.

"Knocking teeth out of your mouth was quite the ego-booster," he retorted.

"Repeat that again, if you dare," The boy growled, rising from his chair.

"I said knocking teeth out of -"

"Enough!" Oromis commanded. "Eragon, sit down, I expect more maturity from you! Colin, can you please refrain from picking fights with every living being around you?"

"I can pick fights with the undead, if you want."

Oromis sighed.

"Enough of this. Eragon, your time here is limited. I understand you have just been to the Menoa; did you get what you need?"

The boy nodded, still glaring daggers at Dovahkiin.

"Then take Colin and go to Rhunon."

Eragon's distaste was palpable.

"I need some time to reflect about what I've learned and I'm afraid I cannot think properly if Glaedr is engaging in a fight with a mythical dragon hunter," the elf snapped before the boy could protest.

"Yes, master."

Dovahkiin would have complained about people choosing where he went as if he wasn't even there, but then again, he did like being called 'mythical dragon hunter', so all in all, he was feeling cooperative.

He and the boy rose together and directed themselves out of the room and to the dragons, where both mounted Saphira and got to the air.

"Now, please do not be so quiet, Eragon. Give me a piece of your mind about all of this." Dovahkiin said conversationally.

"You mean about the way you apparently are some sort of Greyfolk legend? Because I find that hard to believe. You've struck me as quite the antihero so far."

He should have been offended, but oddly enough, he found the word 'antihero' did in fact suit him very well.

"Well hey, at least I get things done. That has to count for something when the gods decide to judge my poor immortal soul. Besides, I bet you are just jealous I get to call Arya Little Elf and you don't."

Maybe he should give Eragon a break. He had been an arrogant boy of seventeen himself, and would never have become the man he was without the steady trust and support of his friends.

"And the worst of it," Eragon mumbled, more to himself than to Dovahkiin, "Is that you don't even try to be a better person."

Who the hell was he kidding? Brynjolf had him be the one to give Maven the bad news every time on the first three months in the guild; Aela had assigned him all the dungeon-diving fetch quests when he was a whelp.

"Hmm. Must've something to do with all my psychological trauma. Or maybe the fact that half my head _is a godsforsaken dragon_."

_Nope, you're just an asshole_, said the simultaneous inner voices of Brynjolf-Karliah-Vex-Delvin-Vilkas-Farkas-Aela-Serana –

_Well damn, why don't you all go fetch a morally straight guy the next time you have the apocalypse on your hands?_

Deep in argument with his inner voices as he was, he barely noticed when they landed. Eragon pulled out a heavy-looking lump of metal from the saddle and led the way ahead. He followed the rider through dim caverns and into a tunnel of trees, which got them to an open area right in the middle of someone's house. In the center, there was an open walled forge, where a she-elf was carving a sculpture out of steel.

She seemed quite old, even older than Oromis himself, and considering she was an elf and Alagaesian elves were ageless, probably meant she was Draugr-years-old. She never took her mind off her work to greet them, which was probably quite rude, especially considering how touchy elves were. Eragon dropped the lump of ore on the ground by her feet.

"Where did you find that?" She demanded.

That led to Eragon telling them an insane story about Solembum the werecat, a weapon under the huge tree in the city center and how said tree almost killed him and Saphira - and the biggest wonder of it all was that all that had happened while Dovahkiin slept.

"You actually got into a fight with a tree?" He commented, "And then people call _me_ a troublemaker."

"And who might you be? An escort of Eragon's, I presume." Rhunon acknowledged him for the first time.

He crossed his arms over his chest and frowned.

"Just because Eragon and I came together, it doesn't make me his goon. I'm the Dragonborn."

"The Dragonborn, eh? The book story that suddenly came to life; everyone is talking about you. Do you have a name?" Her tone was mocking, as if she found it all very funny.

"I'm Colin, and you must be Rhunon. I would say it's been a pleasure, except it hasn't really."

She burst out laughing.

"Well, at least you have spirit." She turned to Eragon. "You were either very foolish or very brave to test the Menoa tree as you did. She is not one to trifle with."

"Aye, trees can be quite the crazy fighters," Dovahkiin added with a serious face.

It wasn't even a lie; he'd gotten more than his share of beatings from Spriggans.

_"Is there enough ore for a sword?" _Saphira asked.

"Several swords, if past experience is anything to judge by."

Dovahkiin didn't bother to stick around and listen to their talk. Instead, he set to exploring the forge. It was impressive – not Skyforge impressive, but striking nonetheless. He picked up a hammer; it was lighter than he was used to –

Rhunon snatched the tool from him.

"Hands off!"

He scowled, but did not protest, since those weren't his property and he hadn't even properly stolen them. He looked around and found a place to sit, from where he watched the elf and the rider work. No one had asked him for help, and he didn't offer it. They went back and forth carrying heavy stones and coal with some sort of telekinetic spell, and it took him a while to understand what they were doing – building a smelter. Why in Oblivion did the smith not have one already, he did not know.

It took them hours to get it done and finally begin to melt the ore, making it almost sunset. As the two pumped air into it, Saphira crouched down several meters away and watched the fire.

_"I could help with this, you know. It would take me but a minute to melt the ore."_

Dovahkiin shook his head. He had found out the hard way that fire-breathing raw minerals did not lead to good quality metal.

"If you melt it too quickly, it becomes brittle. Most metals need to combine with charcoal to become good for forging. It's okay if you use fire-breath when you're shaping it though."

Rhunon faced him, eyebrows high. "That is… actually accurate. I wasn't aware you knew of smithing."

"I'm not a master of it," he admitted, "But I can work most metals well enough to keep me alive and killing things. Mostly, I fix up my own armor; it tends to get destroyed a lot."

"I can't imagine why," Eragon muttered. "Asides from smithing, dragon hunting and speaking the ancient language, is there anything else you do I might want to know?"

"I brew terrific poisons and bake a killer sweetroll. Or was it the other way round?"

"Jack of all trades, are you?" Rhunon mused.

"An essential part of staying alive. I'm a multi-talented versatile man." He grinned. "Fit for a princess."

Eragon made a face at that, but did not reply. Dovahkiin had to admit the boy was doing quite well on his anger management, for fear of losing more teeth, maybe, or perhaps for living up to his masters' expectations. He could have teased more, but his mind went off in yet another tangent.

He did in fact have a strong tendency to mix up with aristocracy, something he mostly attributed to his position as Skyrim's hero. He was quite acquainted with nobility, be it living – such as the jarls – or even dead, like Queen Potema and Pelagius the Mad. And of course, there was always the undead, and he couldn't help but remember that Harkon had been a king, too.

_They were sitting in the Wayshrine of whatever-the-hell and waiting for the absurd snowstorm to pass. Even for a Nord, it was really damn cold. He could have fixed it with Clear Skies, but after slaying two dragons and a frost giant, he had accumulated quite a few bruises and was more than ready to call it a day. Serana didn't even question when he sat down against a wall, already beginning to unpack their bedrolls._

_Or rather, bedroll, since the other one got eaten by a saber cat two days before, together with all his food. Almost all of it, anyway; Serana handed him yet another slice of cheese and he groaned. He could almost hear Sheogorath laughing at him._

_Usually, he'd be worried about being snowed in, but he had convenient portals behind him in case that happened. Those gates were the weirdest things; he could see what was after them, no transition between 'here' and 'there'. However, he could touch them all he wanted and they would remain as solid as bricks unless he actively desired to be teleported to the other side. He'd reach out to them and suddenly be on his destination, left only with an oddly warm feeling. Still, he directed his gaze outside; it looked as if he was leaning against air and empty space, and the sight was a bit vertiginous._

_Every once in a while he would catch through the fog a glimpse of the faint blue outline of Prelate what's-his-name's specter, standing in the middle of the storm unfazed. That was really all they did; welcome to the Wayshrine, mantras of Auri-el, grow a building out of the earth and then just resume standing there, staring off into space, waiting for another initiate. They didn't react to anything – it was as if he had just stopped existing once he'd had the jug filled._

_Truthfully, Dovahkiin found it very, very creepy. He shivered, though whether from the cold or from the eeriness of his situation, he was unsure. To his side, Serana shifted a little bit closer, and he wondered for the first time if vampires actually felt cold. She hadn't shown any signs of it so far, but then again, before being undead, she'd been a Nord woman. He decided to voice his question in order to, quite literally, break the ice._

_"Do vampires feel cold?" He said casually._

_She didn't immediately reply, instead staring off into space. She'd been growing gradually gloomier the closer they got to the Bow and consequently facing her father, and he feared she might be going depressive. She stood silent for so long, he began to wonder if he'd asked something wrong; he wasn't a master of vampire etiquette after all. Abruptly, she faced him, her eyes catching his with burning intensity. He shuddered again, but this time, the cold had nothing to do with it._

_"We feel everything," She said in a carefully neutral tone._

_She didn't drop her gaze, and he wouldn't either; being the first to break off eye contact was a sign of weakness his draconic nature just wouldn't allow. They stared at each other for almost a minute; she kept her blank face all through it. She was good, but he knew her well enough to crack through it._

_What he saw in her confused him – unease, doubt, fear, but, most of all, a deep despair, almost as if she called for help. He knew she was on the verge of tears. He couldn't be sure, but he'd wager she was inwardly begging him to please, please believe she was not just a monster._

_"Everything?" He insisted._

_"Yes."_

_He put on his signature wolfish grin._

_"I bet you are ticklish!"_

_She barely had time to express her surprise and outrage and he was already on her, tickling everywhere. It turned out she had an extremely sensitive spot below the left side of her jawbone, one he promptly took advantage of._

_It also turned out she was an excellent wrestler._

_In a split second, she was on his back and had him completely immobilized somehow, his head forced down on the floor by one of her hands, his own limbs rendered useless by her knees. He was a strong man and she wasn't all that heavy, but she managed to distribute her weight in such way that made him immobile._

_"Ouch," He complained. She didn't move._

_"I'll be good," he promised._

_Nothing. He flailed a bit more, to no avail._

_"Say the magic word." She replied. He could almost see the smug smile on her face._

_There was just no way he was giving her a 'please'._

_"Wuld!"_

_The two of them shot forward and crashed against the very solid barrier of nothing between the portal and 'the other side', and he took his chance to roll off behind her. She groaned, rubbing her forehead which had apparently hit hard._

_"Honestly," she mumbled, "You are the worst knight in shining armor in existence."_

_He scoffed at that. He knew she was fond of storybooks; she'd told him she and her mother used to spend a lot of time reading. He supposed there wasn't really much else to do in a castle in the middle of the sea besides reading and building secret gates to Oblivion. She'd said her favorite books were those with adventures, but he'd bet twin dragon souls that she actually liked the sappy romance ones._

_"Yes, because you're quite the defenseless princess," he retorted._

_She turned to stare at him, her head tilted slightly to the side, questioningly. "Well, yes. Father used to be a king. He still is, I suppose, but with much different subjects."_

_It didn't surprise him, somehow. She had something about her, a certain exquisiteness that reminded him a bit of Elisif. Even when they were running away from trolls, she'd do it on the most dignified way possible, while he'd come out not much better than Meeko after a rainy day._

_She was very delicate in her own way and he found it adorable. When she wasn't flinging out ice spikes, of course._

_"Well, that's how it goes. Cyrodiilic princesses in distress get knights in shining armors. Necromantic ice-spike wielding vampire princesses get good old me."_

_She actually smiled at that, as if the idea was particularly mirthful._

_"I suppose I could do worse," She commented, "Although it wouldn't hurt if you looked a bit better."_

_Oh, now he was offended._

_"What?! I look great, thank you very much," he replied in indignation._

_Her smile widened._

_"Hmm. Sometimes, I can't help but wish they had sent that cute blonde Dawnguard for me instead."_

_It took him a couple seconds to realize about whom she was talking._

_"Agmaer?! You think Agmaer looks better than me? He hasn't even grown a beard yet!"_

_She shrugged indifferently._

_"Yes, that's one thing. You should get rid of that stubble of yours. It makes you seem dirty and sloppy. "_

_The nerve of that woman!_

_"I'll let you know a lot of ladies love my manly stubble," He snapped._

_"It itches."_

_She saw it coming this time. He pounced on her again to let her know just how much it itched, but she was more than ready. She waited until the perfect moment and twisted, flipping him over. He landed on his back with a heavy thud._

_"Ouch!" He whined. "Where did you learn those moves?!"_

_She shifted uneasily. "It was before… you know."_

_He sat up and gave her a reassuring nod; she continued, her voice more confident._

_"I was seeing this man… he was on the Dragonguard. He taught me a lot of the fighting techniques I know."_

_That surprised him; he'd never expect her to date what was essentially a predecessor to the Blades._

_"Really? I didn't know they accepted cute boys on the Dragonguard," he teased._

_"Oh, no. He was a Redguard."_

_Holy shit._

_His mind did an involuntary check up on every Redguard he knew, and of course he ended up with a mental image of Serana and Isran. The scene was so bizarre it made him blink; Isran flashed out and was substituted by Nazeem, which was not really better. Suddenly, the possible hidden meanings of 'Cloud District' seemed much more important._

_Holy shit._

_He realized he was gaping._

_"I was expecting an Imperial or Breton. A Nord would already be a stretch. I was definitely not expecting a big badass Redguard."_

_"What's wrong with Redguard?" She challenged._

_"There's nothing wrong with them. But you said you liked cute. Redguards aren't cute, they are terrifying. They're just below orcs in the macho scale."_

_"The macho scale." She repeated in wonder, shaking her head slowly._

_"He didn't take my change too well. Which is a nice way to say he hunted me down until father finally ordered him killed."_

_Her tone was hollow, as was her gaze. He moved to her and wrapped her up in his arms. She was deathly cold, which was actually fine when opposed to 'apocalyptic-snowstorm-cold'. She didn't resist, instead shuffling to a comfortable position._

_"Don't think too hard about that. The Blades are great at killing things but not so much in picking what to kill. That's what they need us Dragonborn for."_

_"An order made by the most powerful of warriors, with you as their moral leader? Damn."_

_And then she was suddenly attacked by a mixture of itchy stubble and ticking._

But by the Divines, he'd been thinking way too much about that woman. He was beginning to worry he might like her, as in _like_ her. That could be troublesome. He'd always held her as an exception to her kind, a 'nice vampire', like Paarthurnaax was a 'nice dragon' and the Companions were 'nice werewolves'. Still, he was champion of Akatosh while she was a Daughter of Coldharbour, and even their friendship was already improper.

_Can't blame the dragon on that one, lad?_

And the worst part was that he couldn't. His dragon side was all about sex, power and violence. These sorts of _fluffy _feelings were his fault entirely. Especially when they made him awkward and were directed to the most possibly inappropriate person. He most certainly did not like the idea of commitment, and at least that much could be blamed on his dragon soul; part of him wanted to give himself entirely to that woman, and the other part knew it would mean a loss of freedom he was terrified of.

The rational part of him knew he was screwed up when his human emotions disagreed with his dragon ones and he could not figure the most sensible side. Very troublesome indeed. And he hadn't even considered her own possible feelings about it.

He was snapped out of his inner conflict by Rhunon, who was currently waiting for the molten ore to cool.

"Can I see your sword?" The elf asked.

He drew out Dawnbreaker and handed it over.

"Careful," he warned, "She's quirky."

The smith grunted but took the sword nonetheless, inspecting it closely. She ran her hands lightly through the sword's edge, then tapped it, making a resonating ting. Finally, she focused her scrutinizing attention on the sword's pulsing gem, but refrained from touching it. She handed the blade back to him and he placed it back on its sheathe.

"The crafting is more than fine, it is perfect. Did you smith this yourself?"

"No, I –" Then something much more urgent caught his eye. "Daedra, Divines and Sithis, are those –"

Rhunon turned to where he was staring at.

" – elf children." He completed. "I didn't even – can elves actually have children?!"

Standing in the door were three individuals, one of which he recognized as a werecat. His attention was fully drawn to the other two, a boy and a girl. They were the cutest things ever, teardrop faces, big puppy eyes and pointy ears.

"Of course elves have children," Rhunon retorted, "Where did you think we come from?"

"I don't know. I thought you spawned fully grown from a dead elf's body. Maybe laid eggs or something." He said, already getting up and walking towards the newcomers. "I would have never guessed that elves could produce something as cute as children."

He bent down and picked up the little girl, placing her in the piggyback-spot. The boy's eyes widened in surprise, growing even bigger, but before he could react, Dovahkiin had already picked him up too.

"Why hello there!" He said to the gaping little boy. "Do you have a name?"

The kid just blinked, shock stamped in his face.

"Cat got your tongue, eh?" He turned to the watching werecat. "Please return the lad's tongue."

The werecat rolled her eyes. He heard a giggle from the girl in his back.

"He's my brother Dusan," Her little voice sounded in his ear. "I'm Alanna, and the cat is Maud."

He put both children back to the ground, much to the boy's relief. Dusan took a few steps back, placing some distance between Dovahkiin and himself. Alanna grabbed his arm and pulled him back forward.

"Pleased to meet you, children. I'm Colin." He faced Maud. "Hircine guide your steps."

The werecat twitched her nose slightly in satisfaction.

"Who's Hircine?" The little girl asked.

Dovahkiin ruffled her blonde hair roughly.

"So what brings you here?" He asked, ignoring her question.

"We came to see Eragon." Her eyes scanned the room, quickly locking in her target. "Is he Eragon?"

"That'd be him," Dovahkiin confirmed, but she was already next to the rider.

Energetic little kid. Dusan, on the other hand, was taking very slow, very careful steps towards Saphira, his face bathed in awe.

"Wow! Are you Eragon? Is it true that you are a human? What is like? You don't have round ears. Do humans really have round ears?"

She looked up expectantly. Eragon blinked, clearly stunned by her stream of questions.

"Are you a real warrior? What is it like to be a warrior? Can I be one too?" She continued before he could answer.

Who would have guessed that behind all that peaceful vegetarianism, elven children were just as warrior-loving as human ones?

"Um. Yes, I am a warrior. But war is something very serious -"

_Oh, for the love of Talos._

"I have round ears," Dovahkiin casually announced.

Stendarr's mercy, the girl didn't run, she _teleported._

"Can I see them? Can I touch them?"

He chuckled, crouching down to let her feel his ears.

"Wow! Dusan, you've got to see this! They're really round!"

The kid approached timidly from his side.

"Lana, I'm not sure we should -"

"Don't be silly, Dusan. He's nice!" She replied.

"Relax, kid, I don't bite. Much." Dovahkiin added with a grin.

Reluctantly, the boy approached.

"Are you a warrior too?" Alanna asked as her brother inspected the miracle of round ears.

"Me? A warrior? Hmmm… I'm more of a rogue."

"What's a rogue?" Dusan asked curiously.

"A rogue is like a warrior, but with a brain," Dovahkiin explained.

His peripheral vision caught a glimpse of Eragon scowling. Apparently, the rider didn't approve of his definition. Alanna's eyes widened.

"Amazing! How do you become one? Can I be one too? "

Dovahkiin eyed the forge. It would still take Eragon ages to get his sword done, a long, boring process he didn't really want to watch. He looked at Alanna's exited face, and her brother's shy but not less expectant one. Did anyone ever play with these children? From the kind of book they gave to kids, he'd have to say no. Did elven children even know how to play? No wonder they grew up to be such tedious bastards.

Abruptly, he was reminded of his own childhood. No one had ever played with _him_, the orphan, the runaway. Maybe if someone had, he would have grown up to be less of an asshole. He smirked. It was almost fully dark now; what better time to teach a kid the arts of the thief? Besides, he'd only show them a bit of the little things – picking locks and pockets, sneaking around, that sort of absolutely harmless knowledge. And it wasn't like they'd become master thieves in a night. What could possibly go wrong?

Brynjolf would be so proud of him.

"Well, how about you two come with me and I show you a few things?"

* * *

**_I used to write stories like you guys, but then I took a LIFE to the FACE._**

**_Ahem._**

**_This was originally planned to cover his whole stay in Ellesméra, but it was growing too long, and besides, I realized there really wasn't too much planned for the next chapter anyway, so I split it in two. _**

**_So, in the following chapter, expect elfland part two, plus the battle of Feinster. _**

**_On a completely unrelated note, we just got our first 3D TV here at home, so I whipped up a few mods here, a couple third party software there, a bunch of cables, and ta-dah! Got myself Skyrim in 3D. It is effing amazing. I loaded up my last save game and ended up in a stunning tri-dimensional Apocrypha, and all I have to say is you guys have no idea how huge a Lurker is until you see it in full three dimensions._**

**_I'd like to say thank you to every one who read, favorited and particularly, those who took their time to review, be it positively, constructively or negatively. _**

**_A special shout out to ShadowedFang, who went through the trouble of beta-reading it for me, even though she took a life to the face, too._**

**_As always, thanks for reading!_**


	15. Chapter 14

He had to admit they did not call High Elves 'The Cultured Ones' for nothing. Those little kids learnt, and they did it bloody fast.

From his advantage point, he watched in mesmerized awe as the siblings approached an oblivious elf, chasing one another in a game of tag. Carelessly, almost indifferently, Alanna backtracked as she ran away from her brother, _accidentally _bumping the pedestrian. She turned swiftly and begun her energetic babbling, grasping hold of the elf's hands and jumping on the spot. The victim blinked, visibly stunned by the girl's enthusiasm.

Dusan was already gracefully sneaking his way round to the back of the elf. Once the boy was close enough, he extended his hands to the mer's belt, where the purse laid. Quickly untying the knot that held it closed, the kid fished something out of his own pocket and placed in the victim's satchel, then laced it back. Still undetected, he hopped back slowly at first, then faster, until he was far enough away to give his sister the combined whistle signal.

Alanna giggled well naturedly and moved forward, lacing her arms around the pedestrian's legs in a fierce hug. Again, the elf was caught in surprise, but a slight smile crossed his face and he lifted his hand to pet the little girl's head. By the Divines, she was good at that. She gave him a big grin before happily hopping away.

Dovahkiin turned around on his hiding spot and waited for the children to return. Upon beginning to instruct the twins, he had soon found out the two were actually quite adept at sneaking, no doubt something they learnt from the werecat he'd met them with. Asides from showing them how to properly bend their knees when in a crouch, he had little to add to their technique; they knew all the theory and only practice would make it perfect.

He had then proceeded to give them a basic notion of sneakily reaching into pockets. They had trained it on him for a while, but he knew they had to get some field expertise, so he proposed a simple, harmless exercise. The kids were to place a little stone inside an unsuspecting elf's pockets, without being detected. Reverse pickpocketing had been the way Dovahkiin himself had been tested by Brynjolf, and it was a good way to practice; he reckoned if the children could put things inside someone's bag, then they could also take things without much trouble.

Another reason it was a good idea was that beginners tended to get caught, and while stealing was certain to get the two in trouble, planting stones on someone's satchel could easily pass as an innocent game. As it turned out, he needn't have worried; half Ellesméra was now unconsciously carrying a pebble in their bags and the children hadn't been detected, not even once.

He had let them do their task through their own means, and through unspoken agreement, the two developed a pattern. Alanna would distract the target while her brother snuck around and completed the job; once Dusan was far enough, he'd give his sister a signal and they would meet at a rendezvous spot. The strategy was simplistic at most, but to his trained eye, there was much more to be observed.

Alanna was naturally deceptive; she smoothly played the victim along, never hesitating. Most children would have been at least a little uneasy in her place, unable to hide their excitement. That was not the case; the girl's acting was spontaneous and fluid, leaving little to none room for suspicion, and her improvising skills were nothing short of impressive. She didn't simply distract the victim while her brother acted; she literally put on a show, with uncanny grace.

Dusan wasn't any less gifted. The kid had some of the nimblest fingers he'd ever seen, doing and undoing knots with surgical precision. The boy's touch was light as a feather, hardly perceptible even to Dovahkiin's careful observation. Dusan had talked about his joy over manual laboring, such as drawing and sculpting, but Dovahkiin could see a much more lucrative use for the boy's talents.

Beyond skill, they were also gifted with uncanny luck. And, when he suggested picking birdsong as a whistle signal, the children had promptly agreed, choosing, from all the birds, the song of a nightingale. While it was not unusual for children to display specific skills at very early age, such as Braith in Whiterun, who was no doubt a warrior to be, Dovahkiin was sure there was more to Alanna and Dusan than simply natural propensity.

He had been planning to fool around with the children, maybe teach them to jump on an elf or two, but their picking a nightingale's song was no coincidence and made Nocturnal's will very clear. Those two were marked by her, to carry out her will in the future, and he would train them as best as he could in the short time he had, because he knew very well their lives would not be easy.

He saw the two approach and they scrambled up the tree until they reached the branch he was sitting on. Alanna jumped on him, almost throwing him off, while Dusan moved his way timidly to sit beside them. He placed the little girl on his lap, ruffling her hair, then faced her brother.

"Well?" He asked.

He'd raised the difficulty level of their task this time. They were not only to plant the stone in the victim's pockets, but also give him a full report of what was inside.

"He had a couple letters," Dusan informed, "Also a quill, and a book."

He decided he might as well push the kid.

"What book?" He prompted.

"The Deed of Gëda," the boy replied without hesitation.

Well, paint him impressed.

"Well done, the two of you. Very well done."

Alanna was ecstatic at his praise, giggling happily; her brother, on the other hand, acknowledged it with a simple nod. Dovahkiin mused on how different the two were. Physically, they were very alike, blonde-white hair, big gray eyes, sharp features and pointy ears. Their personalities however seemed to be polar opposites.

Alanna was an extrovert, happy and talkative. Dusan, to the contrary, was quite shy and would rather watch the people around him than actually talk to them. Both were smart, though Alanna had proved herself to be quite impulsive. However, it was compensated by her innate sharp perception, and the girl could improvise quite well. The patience she lacked existed in her brother, who was content to wait for an opportunity. They worked well together – he, the stealth, she, the deception. They balanced each other out.

There wouldn't be enough gold in Mundus if Brynjolf ever got hold of those two.

"Shall we go again?" She asked, her eyes already locked on new potential prey.

Dovahkiin considered her question for a second. He wished he had enough time to give the two solo assignments, to see how well they could fare alone. However, the night was passing fast – he judged it to be almost midnight already – and he needed to give those two at least the basics of the other skills they might need.

"No, that's enough. I think you're ready for something new."

As he untangled himself from a fluttering Alanna, he saw her brother's eyes flash a bit in excitement at learning something new.

"I do want you two to promise me something," he said when they were back on solid ground. "I need you to try that last exercise alone."

"Like a game?" Alanna suggested, "Whoever puts more pebbles in people's pocket wins!"

That was not a half bad idea, and it would get the two to practice. "Yes, a game! A competition."

"The loser has to deliver Grumpy Rhunon her ingots for a week!" The girl added.

_Grumpy Rhunon? _

"Sure, Alanna. But that's for another day. Right now, I'm going to show you two how to open doors without their keys!"

He stopped in front of one of the weird, built-inside-trees houses and moved forward to examine the door. It turned out despite all their morality, elves did keep their homes locked – maybe they didn't quite trust one another all that much. Dusan frowned.

"Why would we need to know that?" the boy questioned.

He had dodged the inevitable moral dilemma before by absolutely not mentioning stealing. He hadn't been teaching the kids to pickpocket, but how to secretly put things in people's bags. It was just a game; it could even be used for very noble reasons such as hiding a gift or a love letter. There were not many ways to euphemize the art of lockpicking though.

"Well, you might lose your keys," He explained.

The boy raised his brows skeptically, but did not argue any further. Dovahkiin double checked the house with his eyes, and after making sure it was empty, beckoned the two to approach the lock. He fished out his flat dagger and a couple lockpicks and held them on open palms, showing them to the children.

"Why do you carry a dull knife?" Alanna asked curiously.

_People are less likely to take it from me in case I get arrested._

"To open locks, of course. I'm very forgetful of my keys." He replied, "Now, who wants to go first?"

"Me!" The girl exclaimed unsurprisingly.

"Good, here is what you'll do…"

He took her hands into his and moved them around the lock, teaching her how to twist and turn the knife and pick so that they pushed the inner pins just right. He had to rely mostly on his hearing, since it was too dark for his eyes to make it out clearly. Dusan followed his instructions with attentive expression, and Dovahkiin could see the boy's fingers twitching at his sides. He moved back and handed the tools to Alanna.

"Try it yourself now."

The girl nodded and fiddled with the lock. He watched as the pick went back and forth around it. She turned the knife, applying the torque, and the pick broke with a snap. He wasn't surprised; he would have ranked that specific lock at adept level at least. Alanna scowled.

"Don't worry, it happens," Dovahkiin comforted the girl. "Let your brother give it a try. Dusan, do you need me to show you how it is done?"

The boy shook his head. "I think I get it."

Dovahkiin handed him another pick and moved back to watch. Dusan took the knife from his sister's hands and inserted it on the lock, then carefully pushed the pick in. He started from the middle, giving the knife a feather-light tap every time he changed the pick's position. He frowned in frustration – he was having a hard time getting the positions right.

Dusan stopped, glaring intently at the lock. Abruptly, the kid closed his eyes and placed one ear against the lock, then started moving the pick again, slowly at first, then more confidently. He was focused to a depth Dovahkiin had thought impossible for a kid his age, his brow furrowed in concentration. The boy's hands seemed to have a will of their own, and if Dovahkiin squinted, he could almost see little tendrils of shadows guiding Dusan's nimble fingers –

Click.

_Oh, no way._

The kid stopped his fiddling and gave the knife one sharp twist to the right. The door swung open, revealing the house's dark interior. Dovahkiin blinked, flabbergasted.

"It worked!" Alanna exclaimed.

Giving a rare smile, Dusan turned to his sister and they began an exited blabbering. Oh, those shadows were _definitely _doing something unnatural with both kids now, he noticed in slight alarm. A little tendril snaked its way up Dusan's legs, slithering through the boy's back almost like a living thing. Stopping at the kid's nape, Dovahkiin watched as it begun to form a shape.

Four lines met up, making a diamond; two circles touched it, intersecting in the middle. Dovahkiin recognized the 'Protected' Shadowmark immediately. The kid stiffened in a chill and his hand shot up to the back of his neck, dissipating it.

If he'd had any doubts he was before Nocturnal's protégées before, he had none now.

_I will never understand your recruiting criteria, Lady Nocturnal._

Still, he had a job to do and a Daedric Prince to keep happy, so he decided he'd have to stop delaying the unavoidable. The noble and essential arts of alchemy, smithing, sword and knife fighting, archery and magic would be taught to them by their own people. The more shady arts of sneaking, fingersmithing and smooth talking, the ones they were gifted with, he needn't worry about – they'd find their own paths with the guidance of Nocturnal.

And while he may not know the Prince's motives, he was really positive about what she did not want – twin elven versions of Mercer Frey. Which meant what Nocturnal wanted, what she tasked him with, was the very tricky job of teaching those two children the concept of honor among thieves. Of course, he'd have to teach them to be thieves first.

"That was good," He praised. "Now, why don't you follow me inside? I bet there are hundreds of nice things for us to take in there."

The two eyed him with looks of suspicion, as if he'd suddenly turned from nice playmate to evil overlord.

"Wouldn't that be stealing?" Alanna accused.

"Well, yes, I suppose it would." No use trying to hide it.

"Master Oromis taught us it is wrong to steal," Dusan pointed out, though he seemed more confused than mad about his suggestion.

"Only if you are caught," Dovahkiin explained. "But if no one knows it was you, well, then you can do anything."

The boy frowned, but before he and his sister could give it much thought, he was already grabbing them by the wrists and dragging them inside the house. Darkness enveloped him, the only light source being the light moonlight that came in through the window. He closed the door behind him and quickly scanned the room for valuables, his thieving instincts getting the best of him for once. He spotted some expensive looking plates and cups, but nothing practical enough to be taken with him.

"This is wrong," Alanna murmured, "We shouldn't be here. What if Vanir comes back?"

He thought it safe to assume Vanir was the house owner.

"He won't," Dusan replied just as quietly, "He's in Ceunon with the queen."

That was good news; at least he could take his time.

"But, what if he has some kind of spell that tells him we invaded his house?" The girl muttered anxiously.

They were even sharper than he'd given them credit for; he doubted the usual not-future-thief child would be concerned over alarm systems.

"He doesn't," Dusan reassured her.

"How can you be so sure?" The girl challenged.

"Do you think he could keep a spell from this far away? It'd kill him," The boy snapped.

"It is all about being unpredictable," Dovahkiin interrupted them. "There are only elves in the city. If someone tries to get in, it'll be an elf. Now, how would an elf invade a house?"

"Open the lock with magic?" Alanna suggested.

"Or blast the door to pieces," her brother added.

Dovahkiin nodded at them. "Exactly. I bet he has all sort of defenses against magical-lock-opening or door-blasting, but none against his lock being picked. It's unexpected - he's never had to worry about it before."

"That's scary" Alanna whispered. "How many dangerous things we don't worry about?"

He smiled – she was starting to get the spirit of the thing. "The biggest threats are those undetected. Remember that, little elves."

"That's what Faölin-vodhr meant, Lana!" Dusan blurted excitedly.

His sister mirrored his reaction. "You're right!"

Dovahkiin raised his eyebrow in surprise. "You've met Faölin?"

The two nodded feverously.

"He used to tell us stories about him, princess Arya and Glenwing carrying Saphira's egg around." Alanna explained. "But we never met Glenwing or the princess – Faölin always came to Ellesméra alone."

"Why so?" he asked, puzzled. This time, Dusan replied.

"We asked him once. He said princess Arya refused to come to the city because she was too sub – stub – "

"Stubborn?" He offered.

"Yes! So Glenwing stayed behind with her to watch the egg and he came to report to the queen. Once Alanna asked why he and Glenwing never switched roles and he burst out laughing."

"He said Glenwing was scared he and princess Arya would kill one another if left unattended." Alanna added, then turned to him with a curious expression. "But I don't understand. Why would he kill the princess?"

"Because she's impossible," He replied in an absolutely serious tone.

"Faölin always told us to watch the shadows," Dusan continued enthusiastically. "That's what he meant, wasn't it? That we should pay attention to the things we can't see."

He had never considered it before, but it made sense that an adventuring group of three would be composed by one warrior, one mage and one rogue, covering therefore the areas of stealth, combat and magic - that way, the company would be unlikely to find a necessary skill missing. From his experiences, he could tell Arya was definitely the warrior of the three, and from what he'd seen of Faölin, he would say the position of rogue suited him quite well.

And by the sounds of it, Dovahkiin wasn't the first to see the potential on the twins. He changed his mind once more, realizing he was trying the wrong approach to the matter.

"I think he meant a bit more than that, Dusan. How about we get out of here and I tell you?"

"I thought you wanted us to steal something," said Alanna.

"But you don't want to, do you? There is no point in doing it if it makes you feel bad."

She nodded, looking relieved. Sighing, he took the two by the hands and they sneaked out to the dark city. He and the children scurried back to their hiding places on the tree, and the waning moon seemed almost reachable. It was a painful reminder of how much he wished to be home.

"Listen, kids, I honestly don't know any other way to say this, so I'll just go straight to the point." He began, and two pairs of gray eyes pinned him attentively. "Faölin saw something in you two and I do, too. I think you'd make excellent thieves."

"But thieves are bad," Alanna protested halfheartedly.

He made a dismissive gesture with his hands.

"There's a big difference between bandits and thieves. Being a thief is not just stealing – it requires skill, patience and effort. It teaches you restraint – how much to take and who to take from. It teaches you companionship and brings out your creativity."

He stopped, letting it sink in. He hoped he'd gotten the message through.

"Besides," He added, "Thief is just a generic name for it – you don't actually have to steal anything. Bearing the Mark of the Thief just means you have a strong affinity for stealth and deception. You two have a gift. If you'll use it to become rogues, spies or even assassins, or if you'll not use it at all, that's all up to you. I warn you, though, that such gifts usually cannot be ignored, and that they also come with prices."

The two were watching him with alarm but also curiosity. "What do you mean, prices?" Dusan asked nervously.

"Power influences your actions. I won't tell you what to do – you'll have to figure that out by yourselves. I just wanted to release you two from the chains of 'right' and 'wrong'. Because out there in the world, things are hardly as simple as 'good' and 'bad'. "

He could testify to that one fact very much - his best friends were a dragon, a vampire, a Nightingale and a werewolf, none of which he would call 'evil'.

"Faölin didn't want you to just watch the shadows," he continued, "But to become one with them. He saw in you the potential to go beyond fearing the dark – the potential to _be_ the hidden menace. Like he was. Like I am."

"How?" Dusan whispered in awe.

"You'll figure it out. That's not why I am here – not the message the Lady wishes for me to pass to you."

"The Lady?" Alanna questioned.

"She's the one who watches over those who walk the shadows," He explained.

"Like a goddess? Master Oromis said there are no gods, and those are just tales to scare dwarven children."

He had no desire whatsoever of discussing theology with twelve-year-old elves, especially when the strongly suspected the daedric attention they were getting was mostly his fault. Hircine had said the daedra had no interest in a world without antagonizing Aedra, which had so far proven to be true. And while two children had unquestionable talent, he doubted Nocturnal would have bestowed her mark on them if he hadn't been there, simply because she probably wouldn't have noticed them.

He knew he was the one calling daedric attention to Alagaesia, and he briefly wondered what sort of consequences this could have, especially in a place without Aedra to counter it and hold back the influences of the whimsical Princes. Just his being there already unleashed chaos and that didn't even take in consideration Dovahkiin's own adventures.

He noticed the twins were still waiting for an answer.

"Master Oromis is right," He replied. "There are no gods in Alagaesia. The Lady… when time comes, you'll understand."

Dovahkiin put on his most serious expression, trying to turn into words the essence of what Nocturnal wanted him to teach the two. Figuring out the will of the Prince was night on impossible, and trying to pass it on was twice as hard.

"What you need to know is that you are free. Free to do what you will with your power; everything is permitted, every choice is a valid one."

He shifted in the tree branch, his legs dangling below him. They were at least ten meters high, perhaps fifteen, and he honestly hoped Nocturnal would play along with his scheme.

"Just remember, children, that actions have consequences, and there are some things you simply can't get away with."

And, with that, he released his hands from the tree and let himself drop, barely taking a glimpse of the kids' stunned faces. He fell down facing the sky, never seeing the ground approach. He estimated to be about halfway down when he felt the cold embrace of the shadows wrapping around him, pulling him closer and closer –

The world was engulfed in darkness, a chill ran through ever cell in his body, and 'up' and 'down' lost their meanings as he fell in every direction. He felt the rush and the speed, as if he was traveling at a billion meters per second. Then, just as suddenly, the ground was made solid below his feet. He was standing in a clearing and, to the distance, he could hear faint hammering of metal on metal. For a couple seconds, he was overcome by dizziness.

_"A bit too dramatic, was it not, Dragonborn?"_

He smiled as Nocturnal's voice rung in his head.

_Nonsense, my Lady. To their eyes, this bit of mystery is what will make me different from a common bandit._

_"So would your splattered body on the ground," _the Prince replied in a tone of disdain.

_I had absolute confidence you would catch me, my Lady._

_"Do not test Luck, Dragonborn."_

She had the same scolding tone she had used when he gave back the Skeleton Key, so thought it safe to assume she was happy with his job.

_Wouldn't dream of it, my Prince._

He heard no more voices in his head, so he headed to where the sounds were coming from only to find Rhunon ordering Eragon away.

" –Now that the blade is done, I can attend to the rest without interference from my oath, so go. You will find a bed in the second floor of my house. If you are hungry, there's food in the pantry."

"I'm hungry," Dovahkiin blurted, announcing his presence. Rhunon looked at him with masked surprise.

"I did not hear our approach," she admitted.

"That's because I was spit out from a vortex of shadows. Now, where's that food?"

"Where are the children?" Eragon inquired.

"I ate them. Unfortunately, my hunger is insatiable."

The rider scowled, but Rhunon gave in with a sigh. "Upstairs. Now go, the two of you! I have work to do."

He didn't wait for Eragon, instead rushing forward towards the house. He opened the pantry and was immediately reminded of the sad fact that elves were vegetarians. He rummaged through the many colorful and unfamiliar grubs, trying to find something edible, and ended up picking a piece of bread, since it was the one thing he recognized. He took a seat in the corner of the room.

"All she has are vegetablerghs," he complained to Eragon as the rider entered the room.

"Vegetablerghs," the boy repeated in a censoring tone. "Naturally. Elves are vegetarian."

"Not back home. Quite the opposite, actually; Bosmeri religion dictates they are forbidden to eat anything that came from plants and trees. They live in a meat-exclusive, cannibal diet," Dovahkiin said as he munched on his food.

Eragon picked one of the more colorful looking cake-things and sat down himself, leaning against the wall.

"Your world is upside down." The boy muttered.

"I could say the same about yours," Dovahkiin pointed out. "I like mine better, though. It's wilder. Deadlier. So much, we call it Nirn - The Arena."

"How can that be a good thing?"

"The people don't carry the air of defeat and submission they do here. The world is feral, and so are they – proud, untamed. Free."

"Do you not think the price too high to pay? Savagery can only lead to bloodshed."

"Aren't you oh-so-civil Alagaesians spilling blood like water, too?" he scoffed.

"Only so that there can be peace later," Eragon retorted.

"But there was peace before, wasn't there? Why didn't you just leave it be?"

"You can't possibly think the King -"

"It's not about the King." Dovahkiin interrupted.

He did not wait to hear a response; he turned to the side instead and closed his eyes. He heard the rider shuffle and eventually settle down as well. Eventually, he passed into sleep. He had hoped for a quiet, dreamless night, but of course that was too much to ask for. Vaermina or not, he had enough terrifying memories for his brain to torture him with.

_He was standing at the edge of the sea, looking at a not-so-safe rowboat that shouldn't logically be there. It was cold, as always, but there was an aura of peril around that boat, and the chill in the air seemed to be getting through his skin and to his bones. Something was very, very off in that place._

_"Guess it's still there," Serana spoke from his side. "I didn't expect it to last that long."_

_"It doesn't look very safe," he said absently. _

_His mind was elsewhere. He was missing something important and he knew it._

_"You are not going to chicken out now, are you?" She jested. "Come on, we are almost there."_

_Serana got on the boat and he reluctantly followed. Just as he finished sitting down, the thing began to move on its own. Every cell of his body screamed at him to get up and run already, because something was so very wrong with all that and what in Oblivion was he thinking when he agreed to escort a vampire with an Elder Scroll home, anyway?_

_She pinned him with those intense, vampiric glowing eyes of hers, and he grew even more uneasy. The boat waddled through the frozen lake, the ice breaking and making way for the precarious vessel that seemed to have a will of its own._

_Ice. That was important. What was he missing? Think, damn it! Ice. Water. Sea. Lake. _

_"And there it is," Serana said, pointing out to a shape in the distance. "Home, sweet…castle."_

_He turned to look where she was pointing at and saw an approaching ghostly shape. It was enormous and a bit scary, with a definite haunted look to it. Haunted._

_And then it clicked. Ice, lake, castle, the Sea of Ghosts, vampires – it all fell together like pieces of an elaborate puzzle, and that was when he knew he'd made a mistake and he was in greater trouble than he could possibly have imagined._

_"You're Volkihar." He whispered dumbfolded._

_She had asked him to escort her and he had agreed, expecting to take her to some sort of vampire den. He had two major intentions with that: he would find out a location of some bloodsuckers for the Dawnguard to clear out, and also hopefully give her a head start and a chance of escaping, since she'd been so nice and civil. He even intended to give her a warning._

_He most certainly had not expected to be dealing with one of Tamriel's most dangerous clan. He'd heard of the Volkihar before – who hadn't? Skyrim's mythical vampire tribe, mentioned in the infamous anonymous book 'Immortal Blood' as being powerful, paranoid and cruel. Word was they could freeze one's blood on their veins, drain a victim without touching it, and that they could reach through ice without breaking it – ice which surrounded him at that instant._

_Ah, shit. He had just delivered himself as these creatures' next meal, and wearing Dawnguard armor, too._

_"I am," She said simply, confirming his fears._

_"Are you insane? Why didn't you tell me before? They're going to suck me dry!" And then the realization finally dawned on him. "Isran was right about your kind - you used me!"_

_Divines curse him and his thrice-blasted soft heart. She seemed stunned by his accusations, outraged even._

_"I gave my word you would come out unharmed, and I intend to keep it," She snapped._

_"You said you were a vampire!" He snarled back._

_"Oh, my deepest apologies. I honestly believed I was a vampire, what with the taste for blood, aversion to the sun and all."_

_"You're not just a vampire, you're Volkihar!" He growled in exasperation. "Why didn't you tell me?"_

_"You never asked."_

_"And it never occurred to you –! It's like inviting someone to see your pet and forgetting to mention it's a damn troll!"_

_Their argument was interrupted by the boat bumping ashore. He looked up to see the castle looming over him, and it was even worst up close. Too late to turn back. He gulped. It briefly crossed his mind that he was being quite hypocritical, since he hadn't told her he was Dragonborn, either. He shunned the thought away and turned his mind back to possible escape routes. _

_"Can't you trust me a little?" She commented pointedly as she helped him off the boat._

_"Says the one who tells me everything," he grumbled back._

_They walked up the island until they came to a bridge. Ahead of him, he could see the castle's closed gate. If he was lucky, it would stay that way. Seeing the castle made her expression change from anger to reluctance._

_ "Hey, so… Before we go in there –" She begun hesitatingly._

_"You want me to go into Castle Doom? Have you completely lost your mind?"_

_She leaned against the bridge sides and sighed dejectedly. He realized something must be troubling her deeply, beyond the obvious 'waking four thousand years in the future' issue. Part of him wanted to ignore it, and good riddance – she shouldn't have hidden information from him. Still, he knew he wouldn't do much differently in her place and it was only natural to be suspicious – he was a hunter of her kind after all, and had she told him everything, he probably wouldn't have helped._

_As hard as he tried, he just couldn't manage to be this mean. She had given him no reason to believe she was evil – to the contrary, their time travelling together had been quite pleasant. And if he could be friends with dragons, thieves and werewolves, why couldn't vampires be good, too? He decided he'd take a leap of faith and play along._

_"Are you all right?" He asked gently._

_She looked up at him, surprised at his sudden mood swing. "I think so. And thanks for asking."_

_He gave her a nod of acknowledgement and she continued more confidently. "I wanted to thank you for getting me this far. But after we get in there, I'm going to go my own way for a while."_

_"And here I thought you liked me," He joked. She gave him the bad eye._

_"I think… I know your friends would probably want to kill everything in here. I'm hoping you can show some more control than that."_

_"And I'm hoping your friends can show control, too. Even though I look delicious."_

_She gritted her teeth in annoyance._

_"Once we're inside, just keep quiet for a bit. Let me take the lead."_

_She didn't wait for him to come up with another witty reply, instead walking toward the entrance._

_"Lady Serana is back! Open the gate!"_

_It seemed like she was someone important after all; he followed her in, hoping against hope that he'd get out alive. The first thing he noticed when he walked in was the strong metallic stench of blood, which seemed to get along really well with the eerie dark atmosphere. They were immediately intercepted by a man. Though Dovahkiin couldn't discern very well in the dark, the stranger seemed like an Altmer._

_"How dare you trespass here – Wait… Serana? Is that truly you? I cannot believe my eyes!"_

_The elf ran off forward._

_"My lord! Everyone! Serana has returned!"_

_She shot him a hesitant, almost apologetic look before stepping forward._

_"I guess I'm expected," she muttered._

_He followed her closely, dreading what he would find ahead, and when they halted together at the top of the balcony, what he saw did not disappoint him. The dark room was illuminated only by a chandelier in the roof, and before him lay many dining tables, over which there were multiple body parts on plates, barrels dripping a liquid that could only be blood, and, even worse, two men which seemed still alive. And of course, feasting on that, the biggest reunion of vampires he'd ever seen – he counted at least ten, and that didn't even take the Death Hounds into account._

_Most disturbing of all was how civil they all seemed, and the thought of organized vampires was distressing. They weren't violently disputing prey or attacking each other over who ruled; instead, they just sat there, feeding not unlike the servants of Namira had. His eyes stopped at the unmissable figure in the center, and that was when he knew he'd have nightmares about that place for the rest of his life._

_The man's gaze was piercing, calculating, stopping briefly at Serana, taking a little longer with him then focusing greedily on the Elder Scroll. He certainly did not like that man. He decided to save being terrified for later and instead dedicated his energies at looking tough and glaring at the vampires in the room, fighting back his nausea. Serana begun her way down the staircase and he followed, still keeping close. They stopped side by side in front of the vampire and he made an overly dramatic open arms gesture._

_"My long-lost daughter returns at last. I trust you have my Elder Scroll?" _

_He wasn't sure which shocked him the most – that the man, clearly the Lord of the court, was Serana's father, or his disgusting indifference to his daughter's return. Four thousand years without seeing her, and the first thing he worried about was the Scroll._

_"After all these years, that's the first thing you ask me?" She sighed. "Yes, I have the Scroll."_

_The saddest of it all was that she didn't even seem surprised at her father's cold attitude. Whispers of "She has the scroll" broke up in the room._

_"Of course I am delighted to see you, my daughter. Must I really say the words aloud?"_

_He was about to comment on how any decent parent would, but he remembered her warning and bit his tongue instead._

_"Ah, if only your traitor mother were here, I would let her watch this reunion before putting her head on a spike."_

_That was alarming. Serana visibly flinched at his words, and Dovahkiin instinctively leaned a bit closer, putting himself between her and her father. He might not trust her too much, but that man had 'evil' branded on his forehead and he had promised to escort her to safety after all. His motion did not go unnoticed._

_"Now tell me, dear daughter, who is this stranger you have brought into our hall?"_

_The man locked eyes with him and he refused to drop his gaze, his fingers hovering tentatively over Dawnbreaker's hilt. The room fell into silence as they stared each other down. Serana cleared her throat, interrupting their glaring._

_"This is my savior, the one who freed me," She said, giving him a reassuring look._

_The man gave him another once-over, more attentively this time._

_"For my daughter's safe return, you have my gratitude. Tell me, what is your name?"_

_For the Scroll's safe return, he meant._

_"You first," Dovahkiin challenged. The vampire looked at him with distaste._

_"I am Harkon, lord of this court."_

_"Colin," He retorted brusquely._

_"By now, my daughter will have told you what we are," Harkon continued._

_"You're a reclusive cannibal cult."_

_He wasn't sure what prompted him to say that, but his gut told him playing dumb was indeed his best option. Serana gave him a confused look, tilting her head to the side. Harkon eyed him as if he was dealing with a particularly stupid mongrel._

_"Not quite, though I can see how an outsider might arrive at that conclusion. No, we are vampires, among the oldest and most powerful in Skyrim."_

_Harkon began pacing uneasily across the room. "For centuries we lived here, far from the cares of the world. All that ended when my life betrayed me and stole away that which I valued most."_

_Somehow, Dovahkiin was one hundred per cent sure Harkon was referring to the Scroll and not to Serana. The vampire glared at him, as if challenging him to point that out. Dovahkiin's good sense won over his attitude and he chose to just get the hell out of that place as fast as possible._

_"What happens now?" He asked._

_"You have done me a great service and now you must be rewarded. There is but one gift I can give that is equal in value to the Elder Scroll and my daughter."_

_And he didn't even bother to mention his daughter before the damn magical artifact._

_"I offer you my blood. Take it, and you will walk as a lion among sheep. Men will tremble at your approach, and you will never fear death again."_

_His reply to that was obvious. He had no desire whatsoever of becoming a vampire, especially if it brought him closer to Molag Bal. The Prince competed hard with Dagon for the position of 'Dovahkiin's least favorite daedra.'_

_"I don't fear death."_

_Harkon's grin was nothing less than predatory, his fangs sparkling in candlelight. His eyes displayed amusement._

_"Refuse my gift, and you will be prey, like all mortals. I will spare your life this once, but you will be banished from this hall."_

_And good riddance to that._

_"Perhaps you still need…convincing. Behold the power!"_

_Harkon's veins bulged out and his body was covered in a mixture of blood and darkness. He bent over as if in pain, then straightened himself, sending blood spraying around the room, and when the shadows receded, he was no longer a man. He had turned into…something. Fangs, horns, claws, wings, greenish skin, a batlike nose and even a crown – all that was included in the bizarrely terrifying thing Harkon had turned into. If he were to make a list of sickening creatures he'd seen, Harkon would definitively be among the top three._

_"This is the power I offer!" Harkon snarled, his voice distorted by his fangs. "Now, make your choice!"_

_Dovahkiin forced himself to look a lot more confident than he actually felt. His eyes found Serana's and he gave her a sly farewell smile. _

_"So I get the power to show off my inner beauty, is it? Thanks, but I'll pass."_

_"So be it! You are prey, like all mortals. I banish you!"_

_He caught a regretful look on Serana's face, and found himself pitying her a little. Somehow, he knew that in the brief time they spent together, he had become more of a friend to her than any on that castle would ever be. He saw Harkon charge up a spell and had no chance to dodge as the purple ball of light hit him –_

He woke up screaming.

"Ah, shit!" He groaned, his heart racing.

Thrice blasted nightmares. It was at times like these he really regretted giving up the beastblood. True, werewolves never slept soundly, but at least their dreams were filled with hunts and forests, not terrifying Vampire Lords. But, looking on the bright side, it could have been worse; Harkon was only the third scariest thing to dream about, the other two being Alduin and Miraak – in no definite order.

He just knew that day was going to be one of _those_ days.

Eragon woke with alarm at all his ruckus. "What –?!"

"Nightmares," Dovahkiin mumbled. "No immediate danger."

"Oh." The boy replied in relief. He shifted a bit, then finally settled down with a sigh. "Want to talk about it?"

Dovahkiin shrugged. He wasn't getting any more sleep that night, and it wasn't as if he had anything better to do anyway. He decided to humor the rider.

"There was this lady back home. Her father was awful."

That was one way to put it.

"You were screaming your lungs out… because of a woman's father?" Eragon asked skeptically.

"He was really fucking awful." Dovahkiin supplemented.

They stood in silence for a while, until the rider finally spoke up again. "I suppose… I know just how mad a parent can get. Still, whatever they do, it's out of love for their children."

It was all he could do not to burst out laughing. "I'm afraid that was not the case. Not at all."

"Is that so?" Eragon challenged, a bit defensively. "I can say I wouldn't be too thrilled to have a daughter of mine going around with you. I wager he just wanted the best for her."

Oooh, touché. Dovahkiin supposed he wasn't indeed the best guy out there. Heck, he wouldn't want a daughter of his with a scoundrel like him, either. Still, that was beyond the point.

"You're right - he only tried to kill her for his mad ritual when he was sure he couldn't have his wife's blood instead. I can see how he had her wellbeing in mind all the time." He snapped.

Silence again. Eragon took longer with his reply this time.

"Some people are just monsters on the inside," The boy said finally.

"Not Harkon," Dovahkiin replied. "He was a monster on the outside, too. Complete with horns, claws and fangs."

That seemed to get the rider's attention. "The father of the woman you were wooing was a…what, an Urgal?"

"I was _not_ wooing her. I just offered to take her home, for the love of Talos."

"I feel like I am missing a context here," Eragon complained.

Dovahkiin grinned in amusement. He was about to comment on how the main conflict was not about Serana herself but rather on how her father had wanted to put out the sun, but they were interrupted by Saphira contacting them to inform it was already morning and Rhunon had Eragon's sword done.

The rider was on his feet and out so fast, Dovahkiin barely had time to realize what was going on. He got up with a groan, his body aching from a bad night of sleep on the hard floor. He creaked his joints then headed downstairs and outside, where he met up with the boy and the smith.

"Here," Rhunon said, pointing at some iron rods. "Try it on these."

Dovahkiin had to admit the sword was very well made, the craftsmanship rivaling even that of Eorlund Grey-Mane. It wasn't the sheer perfection Dawnbreaker had, but for a sword not made by a Daedric Prince, it was really damn close. It didn't have the 'possibly alive and sentient' aura that made daedric artifacts so unique, but, that aside, there were just no visible flaws on the beautiful blue blade. With a yell, Eragon slashed downward and the sword cut through three rods with a clear note.

"Are you well pleased, Dragon Rider?" Rhunon asked.

"More than pleased, Rhunon-elda," The boy replied with a bow. "I do not know how I can thank you for such a gift."

Dovahkiin took a few seconds to muse on how he had got his own sword through the opposite process: do the dangerous suicidal tasks first, get the reward later. Maybe.

"You may thank me by killing Galbatorix. If there is any sword destined to slay that mad king, it is this one."

"I shall try my hardest, Rhunön-elda."

She nodded. "Before you leave, one last thing remains for you to do."

"Oh?"

"You must name it so I can mark the blade and scabbard with the appropriate glyph."

The boy walked over to Saphira and engaged in mental discussion with her. Dovahkiin himself never had to worry about naming a blade – Dawnbreaker was already named, and before he had it, he just called his swords… well, swords. He had been going a long time with his trusty 'Steel Sword' before he traded it for the daedric artifact. After what seemed like ages, the boy abruptly piqued up with inspiration.

"I am decided. Sword, I name thee Brisingr!"

As he finished saying it, the blade burst into fire, making a startled Eragon drop it with a yelp. The sword continued lit on the ground. Dovahkiin wasn't sure what that specific elfish word meant – he'd never heard it before, probably due to linguistic variations from the original Ehlnofex. Scowling, Rhunon staked forward and examined the sword. She gave it back to Eragon, but not before giving the boy a severe verbal lashing for dropping it.

"What does that word mean?" Dovahkiin interceded.

"Didn't you speak the Ancient Language?" The boy questioned.

"An older variation of it; I can't recognize this specific word."

"Brisingr. It means 'fire'." Eragon translated.

Dovahkiin frowned, feeling oddly bothered. It took him a couple seconds to pinpoint the source of his displeasure.

"Molag," He hissed, then clapped his tongue as if the word left a bitter taste on his mouth.

"What?" Rhunön grunted, looking at him.

"That's the Ehlnofex word for fire." He replied. "Somehow, I'm not surprised you no longer use it."

If someone used a word to name a Daedric Prince, it was no wonder people would rename the thing it referred to, especially if said prince was Molag Bal. He was willing to bet those people had another word for 'destruction' that not 'Dagon', too.

"Say it again," Rhunon commanded the rider.

"Brisingr!"

The sword lit up in blue flames another time.

"But I wasn't trying to cast a spell!" The boy protested. "All I did was say Brisingr and -"

Once more, the blade sparked up. To Dovahkiin, it was very obvious the sword had a word-triggered enchantment. It wasn't something very common in Tamriel simply because it was impractical – one did not always had the chance to shout out before landing a blow. Rather than that, the usual weapon fire-enchantment worked through contact: the weapon lit up whatever it hit. Obviously, that made accidents very prone to happen, which was why other magicks such as frost and electricity were usually preferred.

"My sword does that, too." He interrupted the two. "Fire enchantments aren't very common back home since they are usually unsafe, but Dawnbreaker works differently than most."

Rhunön turned to him in interest. "Oh? How so?"

"Most weapons burn everything they touch. Dawnbreaker on the other hand only lights up when she cuts through flesh. Mostly, anyway."

He thought about how the sword seemed to have moods of her own. "I mean, she's a bit quirky, so there's always a chance she'll ignite for no special reason, but she's usually quite reliable."

"What gives your blade energy to do such?" She asked curiously.

He considered that for a few moments. Enchantments took their energies from souls and were usually a one-time thing, since once the original charge ran out, it was too expensive to recharge it – soulgems were damn pricy, and it took dozens of them to fully refill the blade. Unless, of course, larger souls were used, but that was something most people tried to avoid, if only for moral reasons.

Dovahkiin himself refrained from using any black soul gem after what he'd seen at the Soul Cairn, and one of the reasons he liked Dawnbreaker was that it didn't need any refill, like most daedric artifacts. But where it got its energy from was a whole different question. Possibly from the Prince who made it in first place, or perhaps from Oblivion or even from the blood of slain foes – there were just thousands of possibilities.

"I have no idea," he said honestly.

The smith grunted her dissatisfaction before turning her attention back to Eragon's sword. As she spoke the enchantment that would mark the blade with its name, Dovahkiin directed himself to where Saphira was waiting for them.

_"Drem Yol Lok," _He greeted. The dragon blinked in response.

_"Greetings, Dovahkiin. I heard your night yelling."_

"_Geh._ Bad dreams. An unfortunate consequence of being me."

_"What troubles you?"_ Saphira inquired.

"This one lady and her father. Or just the lady, the father has been dealt with. Not that she's a problem – she's not – I mean, she can be – But she's not evil, her father was. She's just – just so – " He stopped, scrambling over his words. "You know."

The dragon eyed him with amusement. _"I will never understand humans and their mating rituals."_

He frowned.

"It is not like I can go all _Dovah_ on her. I've found most people tend to be offended when I breathe fire on them."

Saphira snorted. Grinning, he trailed his fingers on his neck, stopping at a specific scarred spot. "Though she did bite me, so who knows? Maybe she's interested."

That elicited an odd noise from Saphira that could only be laughter.

_"Now there is someone who knows how to court properly!"_ She replied in humored satisfaction.

He smiled, albeit a bit sadly. "Oh, I wish. We are incompatible, though. _Krosis._"

_"Oh?"_

"There are…issues. A bit of an age gap, for instance. I'm twenty-four, and she is four-thousand-something. And then there are all the theological differences – let's just say our souls belong to radically opposing gods."

_"It is like Eragon and Arya taken to a whole new extreme,"_ The dragon mused.

"I think that one is more about Eragon being obtuse," he replied.

She growled, irked at his badmouthing her rider. "_Are you doing much better with your female?_"

"That's different. Even if I did have that kind of feelings for her – which I deny – the time barrier is a lot much bigger. How in Oblivion did people do their courting four thousand years ago, anyway? I should what, send her flowers?"

_"Bite her,"_ Saphira suggested.

Well, that's what he got by asking a dragon for dating advice; come to think about it that probably explained Eragon and Arya's dysfunctional romance. Then again, biting had worked with his previous love affairs with Aela. Maybe he should reconsider his choices in friendship and love interests – on hindsight, they all seemed a bit …unhealthy.

"Bite whom?" Eragon asked, approaching them with his sword cradled in his arms. The rider hopped on Saphira and he jumped behind.

"No one." Dovahkiin replied, cutting short the conversation.

They flew in silence to the north, toward the mountains where he'd met Oromis and Glaedr. When they got to the clearing, the old elf and the dragon were already waiting for them. Glaedr was bearing a saddle and Oromis was wearing what seemed like a mixture of traveling robes and armor, but that was not what called his attention. His eyes were unavoidably drawn to the golden beast and the screaming wound it bore.

"You're missing a leg," He said to Glaedr.

In all his years, Dovahkiin had never seen a handicapped dragon, for the very simple reason that any wounds they had could be fixed, unless their souls were taken. One might rip a dragon's wing off, and all the Dov would have to do was go to Alduin and have it _undone_. Beyond that, Alduin himself used to severely wound his servants as means of punishment, only to fix them back when they were needed.

The dragon snarled. _"Do not dare to think me less capable because of such wound."_

Considering how he had been openly challenged before, the dragon's defensiveness came as no surprise. And while Dovahkiin might be a generally cynical person, even giving in into fits of anger-fueled cruelty, he was definitely not heartless. In his mind, he had a clear sense that enemy or ally, old or young, no Dov should have to live with something like that.

And therein lay his dilemma.

Dovahkiin _knew_ the words. He had heard them from the World-Eater himself, and never thought he'd have to use them. He didn't even know if he was actually capable of doing so. But suddenly, he wanted to try them very, very much – not only because it felt right, but also to test himself. If Alduin could, why couldn't he?

_Because Alduin is a god, that's why._

He jumped off Saphira, thinking it over and over again. He was positive he could fix that leg. _Slen Tiid Vo. _He could do that. He turned his attention to Oromis, who was giving Eragon a lengthy explanation on his motivations to leave the forest and join the war. Apparently, the elder and his dragon had been hiding all this time, waiting for a new rider to show up.

"Surely, though, Master, you do not intend to venture into battle yourselves."

"And why should we not?" The elf inquired, tilting his head to one side.

Yes, indeed, why shouldn't they? A dragon with three legs wasn't any less deadly, especially keeping in mind that back in Skyrim, they were quite terrifying with only two.

Eragon hesitated. "Forgive me, Master, but how can you fight when you cannot cast spells that require more than a small amount of energy? And what of the spasms you sometimes suffer? If one were to strike in the middle of a battle, it could prove to be fatal."

"You have a magicka stunt?" Dovahkiin questioned with surprise.

Oromis gave Eragon a reproachful look - he was probably not too happy at the boy giving away a weakness in front of a dubious ally.

"A small impairment, that is all," The elf replied. "Nothing to be concerned about."

Dovahkiin cocked a doubtful eyebrow.

"Are you sure? I know how it feels to have stunted magicka. I had a bad case of Astral Vapors once and I couldn't heal myself out of it because the magical energy just wouldn't regenerate."

He considered the symptoms Eragon had mentioned. Besides Astral Vapors, a damage in magic could be caused by Chills, Dementia, Brain Rot and Witbane, none of which Oromis showed any symptoms of. And spasms were evidence to a whole other group of sickness. One way or the other, the solution was very simple: having a bunch of cure disease potions usually fixed all of that.

"If you're having spasms, it might be Rattles or Shakes. It's hard to tell – you might even have more than one condition. Either way, I could brew you a Cure Disease potion; it heals most sickness."

"I am quite positive I am not diseased. Still, I must say I am interested in a potion that cures a wide range of sickness. What is it made of?"

"I'd need at least two of the ingredients that carry the property. Hawk feathers, vampire dust, mudcrab chitin, charred skeever hide – any of those should do."

The elf looked confused. "Hawk feathers, I can provide, but I am afraid I do not know what the others might be."

That had to be a joke. That this world had no vampires to provide dust, he could understand – Molag Bal had no business in Alagaesia. But no mudcrab or skeevers? He never thought he'd actually miss those two pests. Especially considering the other more outlandish sources of Cure Disease material – Clanfear claws, for instance, or even a Hunger's tongue.

"Damnation. There are some other things that could substitute them, none of which are easy to obtain. There must be something native to this world I can use, but that would take some research."

"And research takes time, which I am afraid we do not have," The elder replied. "Still, I thank you for the initiative. Maybe, after all is settled, you could teach me."

He didn't really plan to stay one second longer than necessary on Alagaesia, but he thought that would be something rude to say, so he nodded instead. Oromis addressed Eragon's previous question.

"As you ought to know well by now, mere strength rarely decides the victor when two magicians duel. Even so, I have all the strength I need here, in the jewel of my sword."

He had to agree with the elf on that aspect – he was living proof that brute strength could be beaten by sharp wits, improvisation and a bit of luck. In fact, Dovahkiin couldn't quite remember the last time he had an enemy that didn't outmatch him somehow; Mercer, Miraak, Ulfric Stormcloak – those were all outstanding examples of people who by all right means should have killed him.

Oromis went on a lengthy explanation about how he had stored energy in the stone, to be used in future fights. Storing energy wasn't too common in Tamriel since Soul Gems were a more practical source of power, but it was probably a good idea in a world where there were no Ideal Masters to trade for the souls.

"But if you die," Eragon protested, "and yet we still succeed in killing Galbatorix and freeing the last dragon egg, who will train that dragon and his Rider?"

_You, obviously._

"If that should come to pass, then it shall be your responsibility, Eragon, and yours, Saphira, to instruct the new dragon and Rider in the ways of our order."

At times like this, Dovahkiin truly appreciated being an independent unit. Sure, he was Harbringer, but the Companions were self-sufficient and could work really well with or without him. Sure, he was important in the Guild and in the Dawnguard, but not irreplaceable, and if there was one thing he'd never have to worry about, it was 'instructing someone in the ways of our order'. That's what they had Brynjolf and Isran and Aela for. Heck, he'd had a taste of training children in the previous day and that had been enough for a lifetime.

"Ah, do not look so apprehensive, Eragon. You would not be alone in the task. No doubt Islanzadí and Nasuada would ensure that the wisest scholars of both our races would be there to help you."

In Dovahkiin's humble opinion, that was a reason to be twice as apprehensive.

The elf proceeded to inquire Eragon about his sword, and Dovahkiin took the time to drift off and back to the question bothering him. Could he or could he not fix that missing leg? The obvious, sensible answer would be a 'no'. No, he could not grow a dragon's leg back, and even if he could, why should he? It was a bloody dragon. Killing them was almost his profession.

Except he couldn't help feeling responsible for it. He had killed Alduin and claimed his place as _Thur_, and if fixing severed members was a task assigned to the World-Eater, then it was something now assigned to Dovahkiin. Like becoming Harbringer gave him Kodlak's room, belongings and responsibilities, becoming _Thur_ meant he would have to deal with all the things Alduin did – like missing limbs.

His trail of thought was interrupted by something much more urgent. Oromis was approaching him – or rather, approaching Eragon – and in his hands there was a sturdy cloth sack. Dovahkiin could tell without looking what was inside: a dragon soulgem. And the elf was a getting bit too close for someone who wanted to keep it.

"Hey. Hey! Stop! By Hircine's fur, don't come any closer!"

Oromis halted halfway through the clearing, much to Dovahkiin's relief.

"What's the matter?"

"This thing you're carrying is the problem. This – this gem. With a dragon in it. You don't want this thing anywhere close to me."

Oromis' and Eragon's jaws simultaneously dropped. Even Glaedr abruptly snapped his head towards him.

"How - ? Who told you? How much do you know about the Eldunarí? That is one of the most closely guarded secrets, even among the elves." The elf accused.

Dovahkiin shrugged.

"You should really get that research of yours done. I'm Dragonborn; I can tell when someone is carrying a dragon soul in a stone. That man Murtagh, he had three of them with him."

"You mean you can … sense Eldunarí?" The elf said, stunned.

"I can detect them like I can detect anything touched by dragons, but these gems, whatever you call them, are a bit troublesome to have around me. You know how your book says the Dragonborn are supposed to 'consume a slain dragon's soul'? My _Dovah Sil _sort of devours them. "

"I had actually gone for a metaphorical interpretation of this 'consuming', since I did not see any way one could absorb a dragon's mind and essence - "

"By all means, do come closer then – people tell me it is quite the spectacle," He snapped, a bit miffed at the elf's persistent doubting.

Oromis hesitated. "Would it still happen if the dragon whose essence is in the Eldunarí is still alive?"

That was one question he'd never considered. As a general rule, if something's soul was in a gem, then that something was sure to be dead, unless –

"A partial soul trap," Dovahkiiin realized. "I've had it done to me once."

"You separated your consciousness from your body?" Oromis asked incredulously.

He shook his head. "No, Serana is a shrewd necromancer – she managed to trap just a tiny bit of my soul; not enough to detach me from my body. I recovered it later on too, so no harm done."

The elf rubbed his brow with his free hand, looking positively under stress.

"There is an enormous knowledge gap between the two of us, I am afraid," Oromis complained. "Our worlds are too different."

"You have no idea."

"Still," The elder continued, "Back to the question itself. Do you think you would still consume a living dragon's essence?"

He honestly did not know. On one hand, if there was anything stronger than his own soul's calling linking the dragon essence somewhere else, then the soul would not be absorbed – like Durnehviir, whose bonds with the Soul Cairn were simply too strong to be broken even by Dovahkiin's hunger. Then again, on the other hand, Miraak had stripped souls out of dragons on Apocrypha simply by saying they belong to him.

"I don't know," Dovahkiin admitted. "Taking a dragon's soul has to be mutual. I must want it - something I can't help doing - and the soul has to come to me, too. That is a bit involuntary as well – it always goes towards the hungriest _Dovah Sil_ nearby."

Which explained how the fallen dragons' souls in Solstheim _always_ went to Miraak and not to him. And while he was obviously irate at The First for stealing his kills, it had been somehow comforting to know he wasn't the greediest creature walking Nirn.

"And are you feeling…hungry? Right now?" Oromis insisted.

Dovahkiin glared.

"It is _involuntary_. Like you cannot help looking at a pretty lady even when you are not aroused, or how you cannot stop your mouth from watering at the scent of food even when you are not hungry. There's really only one way to know."

Dovahkiin took a step forward, and Oromis unconsciously brought the sack a bit closer to himself.

"So far, so good," He said, taking another step.

And another. Two, three, four, five – He halted about two steps away from the elf. The Song on his head had shifted from a hum to a full blasted choir. He took another step forward, less than a meter away from Oromis and the soulgem - his heartbeat increased. Entranced, he unconsciously reached out to the cloth sack with an extended hand; the leather begun to emit little wisps of smoke –

Glaedr let out a piercing, tortured wail.

_Do you ever wonder if it hurts, having your soul ripped out like that?_

Dovahkiin gasped; in less than a second, the elf had already put half the clearing between them again. The golden dragon roared in pain again and he begun to feel a little nauseous. At that moment more than ever he hated himself, for having no control whatsoever over his own soul. It made him feel savage, and not in a good way – like a werewolf or a vampire gone feral, unable to avoid doing something he truly did not want.

"I guess that answers your question," He mumbled when he felt good enough to talk. "Just don't get too close, and I'm good to go."

Oromis didn't answer, simply staring at him in horror-struck manner. And it didn't even seem faked; no, the elf was truly terrified, like Dovahkiin himself had been at his first meeting with Miraak –

_Dear Divines please don't let me become Miraak I'm not turning into Miraak oh Oblivion no way, oh shit, oh shit, shit –_

Well, he did take Miraak's soul_ – shut up. _And he did go after the Black Books, didn't he? Every one of them; he went voluntarily back into Oblivion again and again and again for little bits of power_ – Shut up! _And he would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy a dragon's dying cries, if only a little bit, and the thrilling sensation when the fallen one's soul was consumed by his own – _Oblivion take you!_

"I'm sorry," He said, utterly sincere. "I really didn't mean it."

"What did you do to them?!" Eragon hissed from the position he'd taken at the side of his masters.

He sort of understood how Serana felt when people looked at her and only saw a monster; he sort of understood why the Circle could tell no one they were werewolves. It wasn't fair; Dovahkiin was very conscious of how much of an inconvenient, pushy, annoying asshole he was, but that was just him being himself. But then there was that sort of hunger, the need for power, that which was beyond his control and just plain _evil_, and he had no doubt whatsoever it was the dragon blood getting to him. He was going mad with Bloodlust.

Who would have guessed that in the end, there was so little difference between serving the Aedra and the Daedra?

"I can heal Glaedr's leg," He said impulsively.

He knew then that he would do it, despite the risks. It was more than a simple compensation for almost devouring the dragon; it went beyond simply being as good as Alduin. No, what he wanted was to prove he was in control of himself and he was going to do it or die trying. His words seemed to snap Oromis out of his shock.

"That is impossible. Even our best healers cannot grow a leg back." The elf said absently, his voice slightly shaky.

"I can't guarantee it will work. But I could try. Best case scenario, he gets his leg back. Worst one, I die."

There was always the slight chance he'd break Arya's 'space-time canteen' while doing it, but he decided to omit that specific bit of information.

_Tread carefully, child. You seek a power not meant for mortals._

Nocturnal's warning coursed through his head, chilling him. She had a point – even for him, that specific shout was probably too much. Still, he wasn't bringing a whole dragon back, just a leg, so he should be fine.

_Careful is my middle name, Lady Nocturnal._

"Thinking it over, do you have a healer? I will probably need it."

He could almost hear Nocturnal snort. As if a healer would make any difference when his soul got blown to pieces.

"There are few who know more of healing than I do; I could instruct Eragon on the right spells," Oromis replied.

Well, brilliant. Maybe he shouldn't have teased the kid that much, after all.

"What exactly will you do?" The elf asked.

He wished he knew it himself.

"I… it's complicated. It's probably better if you do not know."

Oromis turned to Glaedr and for a long moment, they just stared at one another, deep in mental conversation. Finally, the golden dragon turned to him.

_"Proceed, then, if you feel it is right."_

Dovahkiin walked toward Glaedr, stopping at the dragon's side, and examined the wound. The leg had been cut clean by Divines knew what; it really was the kind of thing no healing spell could fix.

_You'd better not fail this, Dragonborn. I have just wagered my Gray Cowl with Sanguine that you would live through it and Jyggalag help us if he gets his hands on that._

"Why thank you, Lady Nocturnal. I'll think about that as I agonize a horrible painful death." He said indignantly out loud.

"What?" Oromis asked.

_It's not that I don't like you, kid, but it would be quite convenient if you died. Nothing personal, you know? Just business. Uncle Sam here really wants that Cowl._

Dovahkiin groaned and shook his head. "Motivational words from the gods."

He briefly wondered what Nocturnal would get if she won. He shoved his stray thoughts back and focused on the task at hand. His hand reached out to his neck and he cradled his Amulet of Talos.

Seeing Alduin for the first time had been terrifying even though ironically, the World-Eater's attack was what saved him from the chopping block. Some things, he could get used to; fighting dragons, for instance, had been nightmarish on his first try, but the more he did it, the better he got at it. It wasn't any less dangerous but at least it wasn't horrifying any longer.

Alduin had been the exception to that rule. The World-Eater had been nightmarish every single time they met. It had been years since that day with Sahloknir, and he could remember the words as if he had heard them the day before. He closed his eyes and licked his lips, then drew a deep breath.

_If I die, all my junk should be sold to finance a war against the Thalmor., _he mentally said to whatever Daedra was peeking his mind at the moment.

"_Slen._"

The first word gave him no trouble, since it was one he was very familiar with. _Slen_, flesh, was the second word of the Ice Form shout, a very material, solid concept, and a word he used often.

"_Tiid._"

The second word did not come out as easily. _Tiid,_ the first word of Bend Time, was always one he struggled with. He felt himself be dragged closer to the realms of Akatosh as time begun to shift and change.

"_Vo._"

The Shout twisted the meaning of the word, but _Vo_ meant, quite literally, 'no'. Flesh, time, _No._ It was only then he truly felt the magnitude of what he was attempting - to deny time. He screamed as a pain that was not quite physical shot through every single nerve of his. He felt his soul be pulled and dragged in every direction, like he'd felt when the Soul Cairn tried to take it, but a thousand times worse.

The edges of his vision began to blur, and suddenly he did not see through his own eyes anymore.

_He was in a cave, and he had to reach the exit. He could see it, see the light ahead, he was almost there, almost there – A brown dragon and his rider blocked the exit. He roared and threw himself ahead, shoving the smaller beast aside. It was all a fuzzy mess as they fought, clawing and biting everywhere. Then the brown dragon wailed and he flapped his wings in relief, he was out, he was free –_

_Unbelievable pain as his leg was severed from his body. He looked down in despair, saw it fall down –_

_Time stopped. And then he watched as it flipped back, and the leg started falling up, and the sword was back, but this time it swung on the opposite direction, seeming to reattach the leg as it passed –_

Dovahkiin briefly noted he had fallen to his knees. His vision darkened, and he blacked out.

* * *

_**I know, I know. I promised the battle of Feinster this chapter, and it's not there. Thing is, it was getting too long, as in absurdly, unreasonably, crash-google-chrome-when-pasting long, so I decided to move it to the next chapter. **_

_**Lemme see here. A little twisting the lore there when I say daedric weapons need no recharging, because honestly, I think they shouldn't. They are supposed to be all mighty powerful and special, which they actually aren't, since even the player can craft something better. As such, the least they could do is need no soul gems to keep exploding things.**_

_**Now, keeping in mind the battle will be the only thing on it, next chapter should be shorter than usual and also come out quicker than usual. Maybe. It's actually halfway written, and I plan on working on it as soon as I finish an essay I have to do for school. This one essay, if you care to hear, is going to be pretty interesting to do. Teacher got us one of those long, boring, lullaby movies to watch - you know, one of THOSE movies. School movies. **_

_**Then he asked for an essay on it. Using my persuasive techniques (read: begging) with really strong arguments ( pretty pretty please with sugar and a cherry?) I convinced him to let me do it on something else. So now I have a ten page long essay to write on utopia, dystopia, determinism and realism as seen on Bioshock: Infinite.**_

_**Hell yeah.**_

_**Thanks everyone who read and reviewed and gave me ideas and such; I even got a guest who reviewed every chapter pointing out grammatical and cohesive mistakes - thanks buddy! I honestly should go back to previous chapters and re-read them, but if I do, I just know I'll want to change things and if I start changing it, I'm never finishing it. So I'll do a major re-read once I'm done.**_

_**Special shout out to ShadowedFang, my beta!**_

_**As always, thanks for reading!**_


	16. Chapter 15

"_That was stupid." Serana chided._

_"Hey, it worked," He replied, pulling his sword out of the Frost Giant's dead body._

_He searched the body, looking for the Paragon. Thinking back, maybe jumping the beast from above hadn't been his brightest move. Then again, it worked._

_"I don't get you, Colin. I really don't." _

_"That's okay. I don't always get myself, either."_

_She ignored him and continued speaking. "I mean, you are kind of thick, but not really dumb -"_

_"Why, thank you!"_

_"- which means you actually think these things through before doing them. And then you do them, anyway. That can't be sane. Honestly, Col, what went through your head when you were piggybacking a giant?" _

_"Something along the lines of 'Ooooooh, shit!'"_

_She rolled her eyes at him. _

_"And what exactly did you have in mind when you decided this was a good idea?"_

_"My, my! Jumping this giant seems like such a great idea when opposed to, say, no other idea. This better work."_

_"And if it hadn't?"_

_He shrugged._

_"I'd be too dead to care."_

_He never saw it coming. Serana's hand hit him with a loud clap, but it was the unexpected flash of fury in her gaze that startled him the most. He lifted his hand and touched his face where she had slapped him; even with her cold body, the skin was still burning up from the blow._

_What the…?_

_He blinked, and her anger was gone just as quickly as it had come up._

_"What was that for?"_

_"Being a reckless idiot. Next time you do something so careless and survive, rest assured. I'll kill you myself."_

_She shoved past him and bent over to pick up the Paragon he had forgotten during their arguing. He frowned._

_Women. Go figure._

_"Allowing you to live when we first met was pretty reckless. Bringing you back to your vampire infested castle, too. And diving in a cave to save that priest, and, you know, everything else. "_

_Serana froze, then slowly turned to face him. Her expression was impenetrable._

_"Your point being?" She asked in a carefully controlled tone._

_He crossed his arms over his chest stubbornly._

_"I'm the last child of a dragon god, Serana. I've been assigned by the gods as Tamriel's official trouble solver. I can't remember the last time I was not in some kind of danger." _

_"You don't even try to avoid it."_

_He cocked an eyebrow at her. "Says the vampire who strolled right into Fort Dawnguard."_

_She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose, irritated. _

_"Just warn me before you do something with very little chance of succeeding. You know, so I can brace myself for running once whatever you provoked finishes eating you."_

_He grinned. "Don't worry, they'll take their time. I'm delicious."_

_She shoved the Paragon on his pack and picked up the cursed jug they had to lug around._

_"Yeah, right. Come on, Sweetroll, let's move."_

He came out of dream and into consciousness with a bit of nausea, as if he'd been sleeping on a boat, and he first thing he noticed when he woke up was that he was alive. That was good. The second thing he noticed was that he was not, for once, a prisoner. That was even better. The third thing he noticed was that he had all his limbs attached properly and surprisingly did not feel as if he had been trampled by a mammoth; he actually even felt well-rested for once.

Now _this_ was shaping up to be a good day.

He was lying in a bedroll on the floor, and though his surroundings were unfamiliar, he could see Saphira's large shape pacing anxiously. Her rider mimicked her moves.

"Are you two rehearsing something?" He called out, announcing his presence. "Can I have a role, too?"

"Finally!" Eragon exclaimed. "You're awake. Are you fit to move?'

Without waiting for his reply, the boy went over to Saphira's saddle, from where he pulled an intricate silver flask. The rider approached Dovahkiin with long quick steps.

"What's the rush?" He asked.

"The Varden are attacking Feinster and we are but a few miles away. I planned to drop you off somewhere before heading into battle, but you began to stir so I had to land." Eragon said as he shoved the bottle on Dovahkiin's hand.

He decided to ignore the boy's intentions of storing him like a package and focused on the matter at hand: if the maps he'd seen were right and his memory wasn't betraying him, then Feinster was pretty damn far from Ellesméra.

"Wait, back up a little bit. What happened to the forest and elfland?"

"The Varden were already on march and we couldn't wait, so I hauled your unconscious self up Saphira and we've been flying for the last two days."

Dovahkiin noticed with annoyance that he seemed to spend an absurd amount of time asleep, passed out, under effect of drugs or otherwise unconscious. And he was twice as annoyed that he had been dragged to the Varden without his consent.

"You know, I'm not quite sure if I actually wanted to return to the Varden. I would prefer it if you had left me behind." He said pointedly.

"One more reason why it was a good idea to bring you while you were knocked out," The boy replied wittingly.

Dovahkiin realized he did not like it when someone _else_ was being the smartass. He scowled, but Eragon did not notice.

"Listen," The rider began, "About what you did back in Ellesméra."

Oh yes, there was that. Playing with a Shout way out of his league had been something reckless and he swore to himself he'd never, ever, _ever_ try anything like that again. It had nearly led him to his death. He couldn't help but remember what Serana had said about his reckless attitude - gods forbid she ever got wind of the things he'd been doing in Alagaesia.

He knew his actions had been stupid. And he couldn't help but wonder if it worked.

"Well," Eragon continued, "I think you should know it worked -"

_Oblivion yeah!_

"Of course it did. I knew perfectly well what I was doing."

The rider narrowed his eyes at him. "You almost died, you know."

He shrugged. "I feel just fine."

"That's because I spent the last two days feeding you with energy to keep you from instant death out of exhaustion."

That explained the well-rested sensation. Dovahkiin shrugged carelessly again. The boy continued.

"I'll admit my first impression of you was a bad one –"

"You mean when I jumped up to help you against the king's soldiers? Damn. I thought you would have liked that."

" – and you have a terrible attitude, and your being a dragon hunter disturbs me greatly, and I'm not too sure where your loyalties lie, but still. What you did back there – it was a good thing –"

"Well, I'm a good guy!" He exclaimed in mock hurt.

" –and I wanted to thank you in the name of the Riders."

"You shouldn't; I didn't do it for the Riders. I did it for the same reason I do everything else – because I wanted to."

The boy sighed. "We'll never really get along, will we?"

Dovahkiin considered it. "Unlikely. You're a bit too dutiful and righteous for my liking."

"And you're a bit too irresponsible for mine."

"Well, I do get things done, one way or the other."

Eragon opened his mouth to retort, then closed it exasperatedly, and thought a bit before speaking.

"We don't have time for this; the Varden need us. Have a sip of the faelnirv – it'll restore your energies for the incoming battle."

Dovahkiin wasn't too sure he wanted to take part in the fight for Feinster, especially since he'd basically made an enemy off the Varden's leader, but the fight was already on and he was almost there anyway, so why miss it? He could worry about his existential conflicts and war alignment for the next, less imminent battles. He took a sip of the drink and handed it back to Eragon with distaste. It wasn't bad, but it tasted fruity, like Cyrodillic Brandy, whilst he was much fonder of mead.

Still, Eragon had been right about the drink's energetic properties. He jumped up, feeling hyped, and after packing the bedroll he'd been in, followed the rider up Saphira and into the skies. Soon, they could see the city and, as they drew closer, the siege engines. Abruptly, to announce herself, Saphira let loose a loud roar followed by a stream of blue fire.

"Showoff!" Dovahkiin complained.

He briefly considered breathing fire himself, but chose not to use his Thu'um unnecessarily. That was when his mind was invaded by the voice of Trianna, who despite losing her magic, apparently hadn't lost her telepathic powers.

_"Eragon, Saphira! You are just in time! Arya and another elf scaled the walls, but they were trapped by a large group of soldiers. They won't survive another minute unless someone helps them! Hurry!"_

So Little Elf was in trouble? What a surprise. If he had any qualms on taking part of the battle before, they were gone then. He couldn't let his elf chum out there to die.

He let out a delighted yell as Saphira tipped into a dive, rushing down at astounding speed. They landed in the middle of the soldiers, crushing dozens of men under the heavy dragon. Already drawing out Dawnbreaker, Dovahkiin jumped off, ducking when Saphira swung her tail around and killed another bunch of soldiers. He spotted Arya and the oddly furry elf coming their way, against the flow of fleeing fighters.

"Eragon!" She cried, running up to the rider. She was panting heavily and seemed quite exhausted.

"Are you hurt?" The rider asked, and she shook her head. Dovahiin took that as a convenient moment to greet her.

"How is it going, Little Elf?"

She had her blade on his throat before he could even finish his sentence, much to his indignation.

"I'm glad to see you too," he mumbled with a frown.

"Traitor," She hissed. "You attacked the Varden, then fled. You almost succeeded in killing Nasuada."

"_That's_ what they've been telling you? And then people say I'm the snake-tongue," he mused. "Well, I like my version of the story better."

She lifted one eyebrow at him and he took it as a sign to proceed.

"I wanted to take the Alagaesia grand tour with Saphira. Nasuada forbade me, but I decided to go it anyway. She tried to restrain me, I reacted, and in the end, I fled on Saphira while my demon-distraction wreaked hell on her guard."

The elf seemed to consider that. "Why should I believe you?"

"How could someone this handsome be lying?"

The sword pressed deeper in his skin. He sighed.

"Because you know me, and you know I do what I want. Because you know Nasuada, and you know she'd do anything to get what she wants. Because you know putting us together cannot end well."

She narrowed her eyes, but still looked unconvinced. He continued on, pulling out with stronger arguments.

"Because I'm actually a good guy and I even grew a leg on that dragon back at Ellesméra. But mostly because you're close enough that I can literally disintegrate you with my Voice, and I'm sure you don't want to test whether your sword is quicker than my tongue."

"You did _what_ back at Ellesméra?" She said, lowering her sword.

"Oh, I'd love to stay here and tell you about the great time I had, but something tells me we might be short of time." He gestured to the scenery. "Must be the background. All this blood tends to give me a sense of urgency."

_"He's right,"_ Saphira growled in their heads, _"What are you doing here without reinforcements?"_

"The gates," Arya replied, "For three days, we've tried to take them, but they're impervious to magic, and the battering ram has barely dented the wood, so I convinced Nasuada to stage the attack so we could sneak into Feinster and open the gates from within -"

"And you were obviously caught." Dovahkiin said, an amused half-smile on his face.

_Never send a warrior to do a rogue's job_.

Arya gave him the evil eye.

"We met a trio of spellcasters, and they summoned soldiers to overwhelm us with sheer numbers."

"Where are the spellcasters now?" Eragon asked.

"They seem to have taken fright at your appearance, Shur'tugal," The oddball elf replied.

_"As well as they should,"_ Saphira snarled.

"Well then, let us open the gates to the Varden, shall we?" Eragon said.

They raced forward in the direction of the gate. Dovahkiin ran up next to Arya, who was commenting on the rider's new sword.

"So, Little Elf, I met your mother back at elfland!" _She's sort of a bitch. _ "She's lovely!"

Arya turned to him curiously. "You met my mo -"

They were interrupted by four soldiers that ran out from a dark alleyway. Before Dovahkiin could even react, Eragon had already decapitated two of them, while Arya had jumped forward to stab another. The last soldier was quickly eliminated by the furry elf and his dagger.

"Hurry!" Arya cried, rushing towards the gates.

In front of the huge doors, Dovahkiin noticed two men and a woman in black robes – likely the spellcasters Arya had mentioned. They were chanting loudly and swaying with upheld arms, looking quite silly. When they noticed the approaching band, they turned back and fled toward the main street. Unfortunately, the group of fifty soldiers guarding the gate tower didn't seem nearly as impressed.

"Go," Eragon said to Arya, "You and Blodhgarm sneak around and slip into the towers. We'll keep them occupied in the meantime."

"I'm good at sneaking," Dovahkiin pointed out, "Which Little Elf here clearly isn't. Maybe Beast-elf and I should switch places."

Eragon glared at him. "If you think I trust you enough -"

"To send me alone with frail, defenseless Arya to a tower full of evil, evil soldiers? Because I don't trust _you_ enough to go with Beast-elf and leave you two unattended."

"Don't I get a say in this? Since you insist on arguing like children, I will take this over." Arya snarled before the rider could retort. "Eragon, you are being ridiculous. Colin, you are being despicable - as always. But you do have a point -"

"As always,"

" – when you say you are the best sneak among us. So I'm taking you to the tower and we're opening that gate."

"Ha! She chose me!" He teased, but Arya had already grabbed his wrist and yanked him to the side.

"Must you always behave like that?" She snapped as they ran. "It keeps getting you in trouble. You've already made an enemy in Nasuada and are about to do the same with Eragon."

"We can't all be docile and yielding like you," He replied.

"Docile and yielding? _Me_?" She said incredulously.

"Hmm-hm. This rebel princess thing is all a façade. You can be complacent when it's convenient. You're a politician at heart, just like your mother."

She stopped on her tracks so abruptly, he bumped into her.

"What -?"

"You're not being fair." Her tone was accusative.

"I'm being honest." He said simply. She opened her mouth to speak, but he interrupted. "We should probably discuss this later, don't you think?"

She gritted her teeth but nodded. They were about to start moving again when they realized it would be no use. Eragon had attracted many soldiers, but a large amount of them still lingered behind, blocking the entrance to the gate tower. To his side, Arya cursed.

"We'll have to fight through," She said.

Dovakiin considered his options. He could wipe the enemies with his Thu'um, but an attack good enough to kill all of them would leave him without Shouts for at least half an hour, and he didn't have that time – he might need his Voice immediately after going into the tower. His situation was bad – he was too outnumbered and simply didn't have enough power - not only for the immediate need, but also for the rest of the battle. There was really only one obvious solution to that, one he hated.

He'd have to call on his dragon aspect. As a general rule, he avoided doing that, since it roused his _Dovah Sil_ and trying to control it was absolutely pointless – using the Dragon Aspect shout meant putting his dragon side in complete control. It wouldn't turn him into an irrational animal like a feral werewolf – to the contrary, it actually sharpened his mind. But putting his dragon side in control had his consequences. He wouldn't become someone else – he and the _Dovah_ were fundamentally the same being, with mostly the same desires – but he wouldn't fully be himself, either.

It was the one thing he did not want to do, particularly after working so hard to prove he was in control. But he did not see another way out.

"Ah, remember when I told you about my troublesome dragon soul?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. She opened her mouth to speak, but ended up just nodding.

"I'm going to call it forth. It'll give me a whole lot more power, letting me use the Thu'um freely, but also turn me a bit different."

She looked at him apprehensively. "You mean the mad, 'violently take over the world' dragon side? What gave you that brilliant idea?"

"This whole situation. You know, desperate times, desperate measures."

"You won't turn delirious and attack me, will you?"

"To the contrary, I'll go very, very rational. You'll like the Dragon Aspect - all serious and somber."

They heard Saphira roar to the distance, and Arya turned to him urgently.

"Do it, then!"

He nodded, sheathed his sword and took a sharp breath.

"_Mul… Qah Diiv!_"

He tensed as the dragon part of him roared free. Little wisps of smoke came out of his mouth and wrapped around him, enveloping him in the materialization of his soul. The mist took shape, covering him with wicked sharp scales and ethereal claws. He felt his pupils contract and grow slanted, his eyes burn and glow, his senses sharpen. And, most of all, his mind reached a point of ultimate focus.

It was as if his rationality had taken in a breath of fresh air, and suddenly, he could finally think clearly - his thoughts were no longer hindered by emotions. It was not that his feelings weren't there – they were. It was not that they didn't matter any longer – they did. Except a dragon's mind was something neat, everything kept in organized little drawers. His desires would be taken into account, a big factor in making decisions, but it would be done in orderly manner_._ He let the chaotic mess of his thoughts settle itself.

There were his emotions – first and foremost, a state of high alert for being in a hostile situation. Noted. Other feelings lingered on the background, and he went through them quickly. A sense of homesickness, a strong longing for a return to his world – noted. An indistinguishable jumble of feelings towards a female back there – noted, must be cleared up in the future. An ache for soaring in the skies, intensified by the Dragon Aspect – noted. A hunger for power and souls, exclusive to the _Dovah Sil_ – noted.

With that out of the way, he went to the situation itself. He was in a battle against the armies of a King he was determined to kill, and winning it would make him one step closer to going home. He needed to get the gates open. With that in mind, he mentally decided upon his current task.

_Objective: Find a way into the tower. _

Arya's gasp broke his focus. He could hear her heartbeat, feel the heat she radiated, smell her forest-like scent. He locked eyes with her and she flinched. He did not let her gaze go, piercing her green orbs right into her soul. She was scared, he could tell. That was good – a fearful subject was an obedient one.

"…Colin?"

He tilted his head to the side slowly, grinning. He did not reply, instead turning back to the tower. His dragon eyes spotted what his human ones did not – an alternate way in, through the rooftops and into a window. While the prospect of a direct confrontation was a pleasant one, it was impractical, for it would call attention and hence, reinforcements. Such combat would stall them on their way to their destination, so he chose the discreet way in.

_Objective: Enter the tower._

"_Zu'u fen aak._ Follow." He commanded.

Without waiting for a response, he climbed up the nearest house's roof, ducking behind the chimney to avoid being seen. He scanned the city, tracing a trajectory in his mind. A soldier was on the rooftop nearest to the tower, the one he would have to leap from – a minor inconvenience. Arya ducked besides him. He acknowledged her with a dismissive look.

He accompanied his target's movement carefully. The soldier was watching the streets, expecting an attack from below. The man turned his back to Dovahkiin – perfect. Running out of his cover, he jumped from roof to roof, landing with silent rolls every time; Arya followed just as quietly. On the very last jump, however, she miscalculated, emitting a slight creaking sound when she touched the wood. The soldier turned his head to the side –

"_Wuld._"

With a whoosh, Dovahkiin was behind him, one hand covering the man's mouth. He pulled the surprised soldier's head back, exposing the throat, and his other hand came quickly and efficiently, slashing the target's neck open with his sharp ethereal claws. He crouched, putting the body down slowly in order to avoid making any noise, then wiped his hands on the dead man's clothes – the blood made them slick, which could impair his grip.

"You are inefficient at sneaking." He said coldly to Arya, then, ignoring her, turned to analyze his destination.

The wooden window was a long leap across, closed and gridded in iron – an unforeseen obstacle; the metal would stop the window from breaking, thus preventing his entrance. Dovahkiin scowled with distaste. Before he proceeded, however, he needed to know if anyone was inside.

"_Laas._"

Four life forms were cluttered in one corner of the room, probably around a table. A fifth one seemed to be pacing in front of the window. He planned his move – a quick succession of Shouts would solve his problem. He took some steps back and aimed his body at the window.

_"Feim."_

He was already running before he was even fully ethereal, racing full speed toward the edge of the building. He calculated he would have just the right amount of time. He heard and dismissed Arya's surprised screech, leaping across the gap –

"_Wuld!_"

His vaporized-self rushed through the window and into the tower, and his body solidified at the precise moment his feet touched the floor. He was in front of the soldier who had been pacing, and before the man could even yelp in surprise, one of Dovahkiin's clawed hands grasped his face and the other went for his neck, twisting the head with a sharp crack. He let go of the limp body and turned to the side where he knew the other four would be, the Thu'um already on his lips.

"_Gol Hah Dov!_"

The Shout hit the soldiers full-on, and he watched impassively as their souls were dominated, his will imposing itself over theirs. He sew fear in their eyes, could almost taste it in the air, fear and submission over his superior power. They knew their wills were not strong enough to do anything against it – pathetic.

_Objective: Release the gates._

Pushing the unproductive observations aside, he remembered he had to let the elf in, so he directed himself to the window and opened it. She was still there, looking at him with a mixture of trepidation and impatience. He beckoned for her to follow with a quick twitch of his taloned fingers. Looking to the corner, he saw the men were still sitting in the same position, staring at him blankly.

"Get up." He commanded, and the soldiers obeyed. Arya landed inside with a thud, but her presence was irrelevant.

"Go to the other tower as fast as you can," He said to the men. "Open the east side of the gate, then kill anyone on sight."

He could sense their despair, and yet they couldn't do anything but obey. As they rushed down the stairs, he noticed the elf was trying to ask him something.

"_Geh?_"

"What did you do to them?" She demanded.

"The _Joorei_ wills were weak. I submitted them to my own."

She shivered, and it brought a cruel smirk into his lips. He was reminded of the time he had almost taken her soul over, and his grin widened. She was an interesting elf; different from most, who were simply overconfident pretentious fools. She seemed to try and keep at least a semblance of morals, which amused him to no end.

_"Tiid liivrah._ We waste time. Open the gate,_"_ He ordered firmly.

She frowned. He waited expectantly, wondering whether she would obey. The gears that would open it were across the room, and it was a simple matter of cutting loose the ropes that held them stuck. The elf did not move, and for a moment, he thought she'd tell him to do it himself. He suppressed a smile – he enjoyed a bit of resistance. He caught her eyes again and lifted one single eyebrow. She drew her sword, moved forward and sliced through the ropes, releasing the gates.

Dovahkiin sneered. In the end, they all gave in.

She turned back to him and he could read a whole new array of emotions. Fury – at him for being tyrannical, at herself for allowing it. Uneasiness – at his cold analytic behavior. Reverence – at his power? At his efficiency? He could not tell. Caution – more than ever, she considered him a threat. More than ever, she watched him carefully. He focused his thoughts back to his next objective, making a mental note to avoid disregarding her so quickly – a scheming subject was one he had to keep his eyes on.

_Objective: Regroup with the Dovah and her companion._

"Downstairs. We should meet with the Rider." He declared, already on his way.

He unsheathed Dawnbreaker, but no one tried to intercept them. Once they were out of the tower, he easily spotted Eragon besides the already opened gates, from which Varden soldiers streamed in. He dodged past the men, friend and foe alike, wasting no time with fighting, until he finally reached the rider and his _Dovah_. He took a second to check if Arya had followed; she had, arriving right after him.

Eragon took in his new appearance with a careful guarded look, but made no commentary. Saphira, on the other hand, reacted as he would have expected of her; with wide eyes, she lowered her head in a short bow.

_"Thuri, Dovahkiin. I see you have unleashed your true power."_

He nodded in acknowledgment and noticed with annoyance that she did not have a proper name he could refer to her as. A dragon should not be called "Saphira". He spotted a familiar face among the influx of rebels – Eragon's cousin, Roran. The man had a rather pragmatic and effective attitude Dovahkiiin strongly approved of.

"About time you got here," Roran grunted. "We've been dying by the hundreds trying to take the walls."

Straight to the point, as expected. Dovahkiin would blame the deaths on the Varden's leader, Nasuada, who insisted in anti-creative, ineffective stratagems, such as pounding against the walls until they fell down. He wagered if the army had been led by one such as Roran, the city would already be long taken.

"Shadeslayer! Well met indeed!" One of Nasuada's lieutenants said as he approached. Eragon greeted the man back.

"What should we do now?" The rider asked.

Dovahkiin piqued up at the mention of a possible next objective.

"Whatever you see fit," The man replied.

That opened a vast myriad of possibilities. He saw fit many, many things, from the demotion of Nasuada as a leader to the immediate execution of Eragon, which would lead to his much anticipated return to Tamriel. But those things, though desirable, were too opposing to his personality – such harsh measures did not suit his emotional desires.

He was fully aware of his altered behavior; he knew that his _Dovah Sil _had a stronger than usual effect on his actions. Still, despite everything, he was still essentially himself. He and the dragon had always been one, and regardless of who was in control, the certain things he would absolutely not do, he would still not do. Turning sides in the middle of a battle was one of these things – he was not treacherous.

His next objective would therefore focus on the second most practical actions to be taken.

" – fly around and harry their forces where you can. If you could break open the keep or capture Lady Lorana, it would be a great help."

_Objective: Break open the keep._

_Objective: Capture Lady Lorana._

He made the logical assumption that Lady Lorana resided inside the keep, so that was where he would head next. Scanning the battlefield, he easily spotted his destination. Without any further ado, he turned away from the group and towards one of the main streets that would inevitably lead to the large central building.

Dovahkiin was almost turning the corner when he heard an approach; he turned to see Arya following him. Unsurprising – she would want to keep an eye on him, particularly in his current mental state.

"You follow." He remarked flatly.

No reply – it hadn't been a question after all. He had already resumed walking when she grabbed his arm and pulled him, making him turn. She bore intense green eyes into his.

"I don't know what you did to yourself, Colin, but it is not worth it."

He opened his mouth to reply, but they were interrupted by a group of yelling enemy soldiers that spotted them from behind. He brushed her aside harshly, moving her out of his way, and went to meet the running foes head on.

"_Zuun… Haal Viik!_"

The first soldier was already within reach when the Shout hit him, throwing his sword off, so that the man's arm came down in a empty-handed swing. Dovahkiin lifted Dawnbreaker in a vertical arc, slicing clean through the man's extended limb. Human anatomy, he noted, was a _fascinating_ thing; he took the split second before the wound ignited to admire the structure of the tendons and how the muscle wrapped over the bone. The man took a step backwards, and Dovahkiin finished him off with a stab on the gut. He spotted the next one a few paces away, running to recover his lost weapon.

"_Wuld._"

He rushed forward with the speed of the wind, reaching the soldier, who had his back to Dovahkiin as he run toward his lost sword. Dawnbreaker went down, cutting the man's back armor and skin all the way through the bone, revealing the spine and the nerves that composed the spinal cord. Then it all lit into flame, skin and bones melting together with armor as the man screamed in pain.

Dovahkiin's heightened senses alerted him beforehand of the blow coming from behind. He ducked, and the sword passed only a few millimeters above his head. The position gave him little room for maneuver with his own blade, so he twisted to face the new adversary, grasping out with his free clawed hand. For some reason, this specific soldier wore no chest armor, so Dovahkiin's fingers went through flesh until they hit bone. He closed his hand around the resistance, burying his hand even deeper, then yanked it out.

There was a sickening crack followed by the sound of skin tearing, and his hand came out holding an indefinite bone. His foe never had time to yell his despair as Dovahkiin inserted Dawnbreaker on the wound his hand had left. He pushed the sword deep into the man's chest, burning the lungs and inner organs, then pulled it out with a twist, leaving an even bigger opening on the skin.

He left the man for dead and moved to the side to meet the next. This one was better than the others, already expecting his attack with sword in hands. Dovahkiin did not try to outmatch the soldier in swordplay. Instead, he hit the man's blade with his own as strongly as he could, and the impact of his draconic brute force was too much for his foe to hold, the blade flying away.

Making use of the momentum, Dovahkiin stepped forward, slicing Dawnbreaker diagonally through the soldier's skull. The man's face fell away, revealing sections of the brain. It was gray and of mushy consistence, almost liquid, he observed – a bit like butter. It didn't quite burn with the flames his sword incited, seeming to melt instead.

He turned to check on the remaining foes only to see Arya had already slain most of the others; one adversary remained. This one naturally attempted to flee, running away from the elf and in Dovahkiin's direction. The time the man took to approach, Dovahkiin used to motion Arya to move out of his Shout's range with a gesture of his hands. He waited until the soldier was but a step away from him –

"_Fus Ro Dah!_"

The shout hit the man full on, and what happened wasn't pretty. His Thu'um ripped skin and muscle from bone, simultaneously skinning and dismembering, literally turning the soldier to dust. A mixture of blood and powdered organs and body parts sprayed on the streets – and also on Arya, covering her with a thick layer of gore.

He realized he was still holding the man's bone. Upon further analysis, it seemed to belong to the rib cage.

A feeling of revulsion welled up inside him - noted. Dismissed.

His usual self would probably have made a darkly humorous observation about it all. Instead, Dovahkiin threw the bone to the side indifferently. Beyond the improvements on his physical strength, the main reason he had come out of the fight unscratched was that his mind was fully focused on it, and not on sprouting jokes. He sheathed his blade and resumed walking toward the keep, only to be halted by Arya's hand, holding his arm.

"Stop. Look at this – look at you. You're not yourself."

It was the hint of genuine concern on her tone rather than her clasping hand that made him stop. He turned to her, tilting his head slightly.

"But I am. You do not understand," He said blankly.

She stubbornly crossed her arms over her chest. "Explain, then. We're not going anywhere until you do."

The possibility of shouting her to Oblivion and moving on crossed his mind, but he shot it down based on a vaguely affectionate feeling he had towards her, for some unfathomable reason. That of course meant he would have to heed her request, even though he had little time to waste. Dovahkiin sighed and bore his glowing eyes into her.

"The Alduin- Akatosh dichotomy. I share my father's duality."

She cocked one eyebrow at him and he was reminded that she had zero education on his gods. He clenched and unclenched his fist with irritation.

"Aedra are beings of stasis, but Akatosh represents time. Past and present, life and death, new and old, time is also change. And so it is that Akatosh gave birth Alduin, World-Eater, who is his firstborn but also Akatosh himself."

"That doesn't make any sense." She complained.

"The gods seldom do. Alduin represented time's aspect of transformation. Destruction, death, all of that fell to the World-Eater – and yet he is still just another side of the dragon-god."

She rubbed her temples, and he could see she was struggling to understand all the theology.

"And what does this all have to do with you?"

"I am Akatosh's _Laatkiir –_ his last child. Like him, I am two – _Dovah _and _Joor, _dragon and mortal. This –" He lifted a hand and twitched his ethereally-armored fingers. "This aspect is one of two, and both are me."

Arya shook her head. "That's hardly believable. What you did back there – you were brutal, Colin."

"The means may vary – the principle doesn't. They were on my way, and I would have killed them anyway. You are also on my way, yet I didn't kill you. I still want mostly the same things; what changes is how much I want what, and how I'll achieve it. It is like a coin – two sides, but still a coin."

"Just – how much longer this will last?" She replied, a bit exasperated.

"Not much longer now. Without any further setbacks, I expect to have just enough time to reach the keep. It will be a day before I can call on this aspect again."

He began to move again, and this time, she didn't stop him. They made quick work of any other soldiers who tried to stop him, the Dragonborn eliminating them hastily with a myriad of Shouts. He made a path of destruction composed by corpses burnt to unrecognizable crisps, pulverized flesh, scattered body parts frozen solid and, most disturbing of all, dead men with no apparent wounds. Arya did her fair share of stabbing and gutting too, but she was not nearly as massively obliterating as him.

They stopped at a bifurcation on the road, the keep to the right. Before they could move, however, yet another group of enemy soldiers came from the left path, blocking their way. Dovahkiin snarled – he didn't have the time to deal with this. Arya moved forward to meet them, but he grasped her shoulder and pulled her back brusquely. She glared at him, but was ignored. Closing his eyes, he focused and clapped his hands twice.

At first, nothing happened, and the enemy soldiers let off their war cries and moved forward. Then, suddenly, smoky wisps came out from Dovahkiin's body, forming another ethereal version of the draconic armor. It gradually grew more defined, finally turning into a figure with a ghostly two-handed ax and glowing eyes. The men who had been approaching stopped to watch, in wonder.

_"Kruziik Dovahkiin,"_ He said, and the figure turned to face him. _"Krii daar Joore."_

_"Geh, thuri," _The Ancient Dragonborn grunted in acknowledgment, and advanced toward the startled soldiers.

Without bothering to watch, Dovahkiin turned his back to the fight and dragged Arya toward the right road while he heard the Ancient Dragonborn's echoing Thu'um. They reached the keep precisely together with Eragon, stopping at the thick oaken doors that blocked the way to the courtyard. The rider jumped off Saphira, and the dragon went to take care of nearby catapults. He, Arya and the boy's elven guards, including the odd beast-elf, emerged from the crowd. Dovahkiin glimpsed down just in time to see his ethereal armor shimmer.

"Greetings, Shadeslayer," Beast-elf said.

"Greetings. Why haven't you already opened the gate for the Varden?"

"The gate is protected by many spells, Shadeslayer. It would require much strength to break and shatter. My companions and I are here to –"

His armor shimmered again and begun to fade. Too much talking, too much inefficiency - he didn't have time for this. He pushed his way forward until he stood in front of the imposing door.

"Back off," He snarled, and his voice carried the authority of the Thu'um, intimidating the men into obedience.

The army retreated a little, and even Eragon stopped what he had been doing to check what was going on. Dovahkiin took a deep breath and, mustering all that remained of his extra power, let out the three words that would blast the obstacle into pieces.

"_FUS RO DAH!_"

He overdid it a bit. The door was half disintegrated, half thrown across the courtyard, together with a good number of men who were near it, and off with it went half the wall, too. Both sides took a brief moment to realize the gate was down, then raced and clashed wildly with yells. Men went past him, but Dovahkiin didn't move, letting the last wisps of his ghostly armor dissipate completely.

The smoke-like bits were reabsorbed within him, looking not unlike it did when he took a dragon soul, and he felt the glow on his eyes recede until it was gone. For a few moments, his reptilian eyes were fully visible, then the vertical pupils contracted into their normal round shapes. And then, like flicking on a switch, he felt his mind shift, his inhuman focus dispel, his dragon side receding and giving space for his mortal self.

He suddenly noticed a hand in his shoulder, and turned back to see Arya watching him intently. He blinked.

"Please do unhand me, dear; I am a bit busy at the moment. I'm afraid you'll have to save it for later."

She pulled her hand back with a look of suspicion mixed with relief. He grinned.

"So how do you like my godly side?"

She glared at him darkly. "We'll discuss this later. We have to move."

Something told him he was in for it later, and he wondered what in Oblivion had he done wrong this time - besides temporarily giving up his humanity for an absolutely valid reason, that is. Well, he'd cross that bridge when he got there. She bolted ahead and he shrugged, following her into the keep.

They were already halfway in when they met up with Eragon again. The boy beckoned them close but before he could speak, a screech rung through the halls, so loud both sides stopped fighting in shock. Dovahkiin covered his ears and saw the elves and the rider do the same, a grimace of pain crossing their faces at the sharp high sound. Then a mental attack struck them all, so unexpected, Dovahkiin could do little to stop it.

_"Our name is Varaug."_ Said the voice, "_Fear us._"

And then, just as abruptly as it had appeared, it was gone. Eragon and Arya exchanged a panicked look, and the elves looked equally as concerned.

"What in the name of Peryte's green goo was that?" He asked with annoyance.

"Please don't tell me that was –" Arya stopped, not daring to continue.

"I am afraid so," The rider replied.

He saw the color drain from her face and that's when he began to get a little worried.

"Can someone please tell me –"

They were interrupted again as a horn sounded. Immediately, the defending men cheered and redoubled their efforts. Eragon let out a stream of curses that would probably make his masters very proud.

"I'm going to take a wild guess," Dovahkiin said bitterly, "And say those horns are not from unexpected allies."

"The empire must have sent reinforcements," The rider snarled.

"Well, then you and Saphira should go meet them and take them out, you know, before they flank the Varden's army then get into the city and attack us from behind."

Eragon looked at him with exasperation. "I can't!"

Dovahkiin gritted his teeth at the boy's resistance to the sensible course of action. "Why in Oblivion not? Gods, I _knew_ I should have brought my own dragon -"

"A Shade, Colin." Arya interrupted the argument before it could even start. "That was a Shade."

Well, that complicated things. He wasn't too sure about what a shade was, only that they were powerful and undead, so he added 'Lord Harkon the Second' to his list of obstacles. Keeping in mind the Varden forces had a good chance of winning if based solely on how the battle had been going, then they had two major issues to eliminate: the reinforcements and the Shade. Fixing that, the battle would likely end up well.

He considered his possibilities. He had three major forces to work with – Eragon and Saphira, the elves and himself. He mentally assigned the elves to the field, as a backup in case the plan didn't work. That left himself and Eragon, and the logical solution was to send the one with the dragon against the huge army and the one who was a dragon against the very powerful undead.

"Go deal with the reinforcements. I'll take the Shade." He said.

The rider locked eyes with him and for a moment, Dovahkiin was sure he would protest, but then he simply nodded.

"I'll be as fast as I can," He said, already running toward Saphira.

The lack of antagonizing from the boy was surprising but not really unexplainable – there simply wasn't any better solution. The Shade would likely be at wherever they kept Lady Lorana, which would probably be upstairs, so that's where he was headed.

"Are you insane?" Arya hissed, grasping his arm as they ran. "You don't know what you're dealing with. Only three people have killed a shade and survived."

"That's actually pretty good odds. Only three people saw Alduin and lived to tell the tale, me included. And hey, you know how many came out alive after seeing Lord Harkon? Me."

He didn't technically count vampires as 'alive'. He nimbly dodged a blade to his right as he spoke, racing through the wide corridors of the keep.

"You've never fought a Shade before," She protested, following behind him. "If you go, you'll be killed for sure."

"Well, Eragon better hurry up with that army then. I'll try to take my time dying."

"You can't kill a Shade normally. You have to stab it through the heart –" She paused, and a renewed determination flashed through her emerald eyes. "I'm going with you."

That caught him by surprise. He had been under the very strong impression that she would want to avoid a Shade at all costs. Despite his confident attitude, he had no illusions – he knew he was about to meet a strong adversary and that his chances of survival were probably slim. She was a more than capable warrior and he appreciated the help and, besides, if she wanted to go, there was little he could do to stop her.

"I wouldn't have asked you," He admitted, "But I won't turn you down either, since you've offered."

Together, they ran past enemy soldiers, up the stairs and through corridors, until they finally reached a pair of heavy doors. Arya made as if to kick them down, but Dovahkiin signaled her to stop. Placing his free hand on the doorknob, he turned to the elf.

"Any last words?"

"Just stick close and we'll be fine. Above all, don't do anything harsh."

He burst out laughing. "Count on me."

With a crazed smile, he turned the knob, revealing a dimly illuminated, ample room with a high roof. Looking around, he saw the dismembered pieces of spellcasters and guards. Two figures were in the center: on the floor, the corpse of a woman, head detached from the body – they were too late to save Lady Lorana.

And, standing above it, was a creature that could only be the Shade. The skin was unnaturally white, and the eyes and hair, bright crimson. There was no doubt it was the one who killed the people on the room; its hands were stained red with blood. It was unarmed, but that didn't make it any less dangerous.

"I've been expecting you," it said, and the voice had a metallic ring.

"Doesn't seem like it," Dovahkiin snapped back, "You forgot the mead and the women."

Varaug snarled, and Dovahkiin suddenly felt a crushing pressure in his head. He gasped at the strength of the mental attack; only once he'd felt such powerful mind blast, and that was when he fought Potema Septim, notably one of the most powerful and dangerous mages in the history of Tamriel – not to mention a heir of the Dragon Blood. Like the Wolf Queen, Varaug seemed to control multiple consciences.

The attack paralyzed him, making it impossible to do anything other than defend his mind; Arya seemed to have the same problem. He clenched his weapon as the Shade approached slowly to finish them off, strolling as if it had all the time in the world. Dovahkiin didn't attempt to break free; instead he watched his sword intently. Every step brought Varaug closer, and the closer it got, the brighter Dawnbreaker's light glowed.

"The sword!" It growled with disgust, noticing the blade – too late.

The Shade was only a few paces away. Calling on all his focus, Dovahkiin overcame its mental grasp for only a split second, jumping forward and striking down with the hissing blade. Varaug was fast, quickly jumping away from reach, and the sword did nothing but a scratch on the bone colored skin – but it was already enough.

At the briefest touch from the undead, Dawnbreaker discharged Meridia's Retribution. The blade released a bright blue explosion and energy coursed through the room, touching the Shade. Varaug jumped back with an inhuman scream, grasping its face as its body was lit into flames. It lost its focus, making the mental attack cease, and Dovahkiin and Arya advanced in unison.

They moved in sync, striking from opposite directions so that the Shade would have nowhere to dodge. Varaug, however, was fast enough to leap into the air, avoiding the blows while kicking the elf in the face. Ayra flinched, her nose broken and bleeding, but Dovahkiin took the chance and thrust his sword forward, nicking the Shade's thigh.

Once more, the blade's undead repelling properties sprung up and the wound burst into fire, making the Shade recoil. Arya recovered quickly, bringing her blade down and hitting Varaug's lower abdomen, leaving a deep cut. Dovahkiin watched with a tingle of despair as the wound slowly closed up, as if it under effect of restorative magic – to top it all up, the creature just _had_ to have regenerating properties.

But not, Dovahkiin realized, with Dawnbreaker's cuts. Not even the most powerful of the undead could take on Meridia's flames unscathed. He struck again, but the Shade avoided the attack, throwing its body full force on the elf. It grasped her wrist and twisted, and with a loud crack of bone breaking, Arya gasped in pain, dropping her sword.

Dovahkiin barely saw it coming. In less time than it took to blink, Varaug had the elf's sword in hand and attacked him with a flurry of blows. He couldn't keep up, barely blocking the more fatal blows, and accumulated multiple cuts on his body, bleeding from a dozen different spots. The Shade achieved a particularly deep gash on his knee hindering his movement and making him limp.

Taking advantage of his lack of mobility, Varaug twisted, delivering what would be a fatal blow if Arya hadn't tackled it from behind. As it was, the blade missed his heart, going clean through his shoulder instead. Dovahkiin felt his sword arm go numb and snarled with pain, moving back with a strong pull in order to take the blade off his side.

He switched Dawnbreaker to his left hand, knowing he was in trouble – with his right hand, he was a good swordsman, though not extraordinarily so, but with his left, his skill with the blade was barely acceptable. Definitely not enough to take on the Shade.

He moved to attack again, but Varaug had already shrugged Arya off. The shade delivered a strong kick to Dovahkiin's chest, throwing him across the room and cracking a couple of ribs on the process. His weapon slipped off his hand, clacking in the floor, and he hit the ground hard, his head banging against the wall and making his vision blur.

His eyes refocused slowly, and he felt dizzy from the blow and the loss of blood, that gushed from his wounds. He saw Arya dive below a slice from the Shade, reaching out for his fallen blade. Varaug moved after her, and they grasped the weapon's hilt at the same time, fighting for control. Dawnbreaker didn't react well to that; the sword hissed and released another blast of blue energy, forcing the yelping Shade to let go.

Arya didn't miss the chance; she twisted and faced Varaug, the Shade with her sword while she wielded Dawnbreaker. Dovahkiin tried to stand, to no avail – his knee wound had opened even more, his shoulder bled heavily and the broken ribs kept him down. Grunting, he focused his magicka on a dual healing spell as he watched the two clash.

Arya too had a wound that prevented her from fighting with her usual sword arm, and she was pushed to a standstill; neither she nor the Shade could land a blow. He knew the situation wouldn't last – the elf was already beginning to tire, while Varaug showed no signs of weariness. He pulled in a deep breath.

_"Mid Vur Shaan!"_

The elf threw a quick glance at him, her eyes widening at the sound of his Thu'um. Varaug hissed with surprise when the speed of her movements doubled. An equally surprised Arya noticed the effect and wasted no time in pressing the battle, forcing the Shade to retreat. Its fighting style shifted, focusing on defending its chest. She had clearly had the upper hand and had many opportunities to decapitate the creature, but for some reason, she refrained from inflicting any mortal wounds on the enemy.

Dovahkiin frowned, remembering how she'd mentioned Shades must be stabbed through the heart. With a sizzle, he felt his magicka reserves run dry; he pushed himself against the wall and tried standing again, succeeding this time. Looking around, he spotted a mace near a dead guard's severed arm - not his choice weapon, but better than nothing.

He took the mace and approached Varaug from behind, bashing hard on the Shade's back. It turned, surprised, and the distraction was enough for the elf to deliver a crippling blow to its abdomen, the weapon setting the unnatural flesh on fire. She lifted the sword to finish it, but Varaug wasn't quite done yet.

Dropping Arya's weapon, it held the blade between his hands, stopping it in the air. Dawnbreaker whizzed viciously and the skin on the Shade's hands began to boil and melt. Dovahkiin struck again with the mace, dislocating Varaug's shoulder. One of its hands slipped and the sword slid down –

The Shade twisted to the right, and Dawnbreaker cut a deep, burning wound on its side. Its crimson eyes sparkling with fury, Varaug reached out faster than it should have been able and retook Arya's blade, striking with the flat side on Dovahkiin's stomach and sending him flying again. Whatever the Shade was made of, it was resilient material. It turned back to Arya and re-engaged her in combat twice as viciously, much to the elf's surprise.

The effects of the helpful Thu'um had already dissipated, and Varaug fought savagely, seeking to terminate the fight as quickly as possible. Dovahkiin sat up again, his mind working furiously. Hard as they tried, they just couldn't outfight the creature, and Arya wouldn't hold much longer. He couldn't use the Thu'um without risking hitting her; whatever he threw would harm both combatants. And joining the fight was no use, either – even if he used Elemental Fury to match the Shade's speed, its technique far outmatched Dovahkiin's.

He didn't have the time to come up with anything; he heard a yelp and saw Varaug had disarmed Arya. In the millisecond that took the Shade to lift its weapon to finish her, Dovahkiin came to a decision. Arya lifted her arms in a futile attempt to defend herself from the incoming decapitating blow –

"_Joor Zah Frul!_"

For an instant, Shade and elf froze in place as Dragonrend hit them, carrying the burden of mortality. Arya's sword clanged on the ground, dropped from limp hands. Then, with an inhuman scream, Varaug plunged down, holding its head in despair. As the Shade lay down in the floor, wailing, Arya remained frozen in place.

She didn't move; perhaps she couldn't. She fell to her knees, eyes wide, pupils contracted, definitely in shock. Dovahkiin got up and ran on their direction, intending kill the Shade off, but suddenly, the roof burst open and Saphira's head popped in. The dragon's roar snapped Arya out of her trance, and the she dropped to all fours, her face contorted in pain. She closed her eyes and tears trailed down her cheeks.

"Finish it!" Dovahkiin screamed, realizing the Shade too would recover soon.

Her eyes jolted open and in one single fluid movement, she straightened up, scooped Dawnbreaker off the floor and plunged it deep through Varaug's heart. The screaming Shade abruptly fell silent, its mouth open in mid-shout. Its skin grew transparent, and for a brief second, Dovahkiin caught a glimpse of the spirits within.

Then there was a blast, and the body was blown into nothing more than powder.

He reached the elf and tentatively placed a hand on her shoulder, brushing off the blue ashes that were settling down from the Shade's vaporizing. Dovahkiin helped her up, noticing her whole body was shaking. He spotted Eragon jumping down from Saphira's head and running to meet them.

"You okay?" He asked, already readying a healing spell.

She took a shaky breath. "I will be."

He fished out the swords from the pile of dust that remained from Varaug, noticing with irritation that the Shade hadn't left a heart behind; he'd have to find another undead piece if he wanted to summon Meridia. Sheathing Dawnbreaker, he handed Arya her weapon. As she took it, he grabbed her broken wrist and healed it with a burst of restoration magic. She nodded her thanks and he focused back on fixing his own wounds.

Eragon reached them, panting.

"I came as fast as I can," The rider gasped between breaths. "I took care of the reinforcements; a battalion of soldiers with no pain. Feinster is ours. Did you capture Lady Lorana?"

"She was already dead when we got here," He replied.

A horn sounded to the distance, but this time, it belonged to the Varden. Ending his healing spell, Dovahkiin took a deep breath and allowed himself to relax. The battle was over.

* * *

_**I'm not particularly great in fighting scenes, which is an euphemism to say "I suck", so I'll understand if you guys tell me you just skipped through the whole chapter.**_

_** To be honest, the reason I'm so bad at them is because I tend to skip through them myself. The whole 'descriptive' part of writing is my weak spot; I'm much fonder of doing the analytic and interactive parts, such as dialogue, thoughts, etc. Of course, a story needs both, so I've been forcing myself to read through action scenes too, in order to improve my own writing. Hope it shows.**_

_**tl;dr - I'm best at essays than at narratives; my bad.**_

_**I'd like to point out a thing that's been irking me for a bit. Sometimes you people leave wonderful reviews and I itch to reply to them, but when I go to look, it's unsigned. Meaning, I cannot PM you back to discuss whatever you pointed out - heck, I can't even PM you back to thank you. So what I'm asking for is, when you make an intriguing question or interesting critique, do leave me some means to contact you.**_

_**This is particularly bewildering when it's a negative review or a flame, because that sort of thing is supposed to instigate a discussion that just doesn't happen since I have no means to contact the person back. It feels a bit like when you're doing a test and the teacher stands behind you, reads your answer over your shoulder, smiles and walks away without a word.**_

_**That doesn't mean I don't like guest reviews - I like all reviews. I'd just like to reply to them. I could do it on the Author's Notes, but they'd become ridiculously long and inconvenient, hindering my word count. Same thing about doing so with reviews - reviewing my own story feels like cheating. So, I dunno, drop off your email or one of those 'contact me' forms or a link to a forum or something like that.**_

_**On a side note, if you did leave me a signed review and you expected a reply and it didn't come, I apologize profusely; feel free to furiously spam my inbox. I can be inattentive sometimes. Or most times.**_

**_And that's it, I guess. Next chapter is from Arya's point of view, as promised, and I'll go on a bit about the origins of Alagaesia, the Dragonborn's background and a little adventure of their own. Thanks to everyone who reviewed, favorited and followed. Special thanks to the beta, ShadowedFang!_**

**_Thanks for reading!_**


	17. Chapter 16

_Djang djang jangle jangle djent CLANG-_

Arya dropped the lute with an irritated sigh. Getting it right was harder than she thought it would be; infinitely harder than Glenwing had made it seem. She let her hands absently pick the strings as she looked out of the window.

Below, she could see the movement of Varden camped outside the city gates. They had taken Feinster, and Nasuada, noticing the elf's desperate need for alone time, had assigned her to 'watch the city's nobility' – an excuse for giving Arya a nice, comfortable room in the keep. Usually, she would have been furious at being babied like that, but at the present moment, her pride was a lesser concern.

She watched the soldiers come and go, looking like little ants from her high spot. That's exactly what they were – ants. So mortal. So finite. So temporary. Shivering, she closed her eyes and took a deep, shaky breath. A cold claw of dread seemed to squeeze her chest, leaving her out of air.

Then it turned into fury, and for a split second, all she wanted was for all them to _die._ What was the point, anyway? They were already dying, a little bit every second; they had so little time, why did they even bother staying alive? How could they stand it, waking up every day a little bit closer to the utter certainty of death? She didn't, couldn't understand. And she hated it.

Arya shook her head, as if to shake her troubled mind off her body. She wasn't thinking straight. She opened her eyes and let them stray through the room – fancier than the usual, but she still had very little belongings. Some spare clothing was in a chest at the foot of her bed. Three books were above it, spine out – _because his spirit had found peace. _Finally, she let her gaze rest on the lute on her lap. Her hand froze mid-strum.

Her fingertips were bleeding.

She stared at them, stunned. For how long had she been sitting there, doing that? More than what was considered healthy. Certainly more than what was considered sane. The dull ache of playing the lute's hard strings had long stopped registering; she hadn't realized she had been picking her fingers raw. A strange compulsion welled up on the back of her head, a nagging impulse that grew stronger at each passing second.

Arya began to play the lute again.

She had given her word she would not sit and sulk alone, and oaths on the Ancient Language were unbreakable. So she played the lute instead. A sloppy bypass of a hastily made oath; she was technically not sulking but actually working on her newest hobby. Theoretically, she was having _fun._ Though she wasn't so sure for how much longer she could keep tricking herself, particularly with hemorrhagic fingers. The urge to look for someone was almost too much to bear.

As it turned out, she needn't have worried. Footsteps approached. Hurriedly, she sat up straight and muttered a healing spell that quickly fixed her destroyed skin. A door was one of the reasons she accepted being moved to the keep; as she waited for the knock, she mentally ticked over all people who could possibly look for her.

After hearing The News, she'd rudely ditched condolences from Nasuada, Eragon and his guards. A childish, anti-political attitude, but she was past caring. On the way to the keep, she'd bumped on Angela and Elva, and the women had had the decency to leave her be. And none of the elves would come looking for her – they'd know she would want to be left alone. That left only one option –

The doorknob was turned from the outside.

Of course he wouldn't knock.

"Little Elf," A complaining voice sounded from the outside, confirming her suspicions. "Unlock the damn door."

She didn't reply. Maybe if she ignored him for long enough, he'd leave.

_As if._

He began a persistent, rhythmic banging against the door. She ignored it. He continued from what seemed like a whole five minutes; it gradually grew more and more annoying each time she heard his fists pound against the wood.

Arya took a deep breath and resumed playing her lute.

"But by the love of Talos, Little Elf, you play like a one-armed Hagraven," The voice whined. "Spare my poor ears."

She chose to ignore that, mostly because she had no idea what a Hagraven was – just another mystery to associate with the man. She changed her pace, strumming even faster. Maybe if she refused to spare his poor ears, he'd just turn back and leave.

Silence.

She waited expectantly. Had he given up so easily? But she knew he was still there, she hadn't heard him leave. A slight, almost undetectable scraping noise. She perked up her ears, straining to hear; it sounded a bit like metal grinding against metal – Oh, noway_._ He wouldn't dare_._

_Click_.

He _did_ dare. She couldn't help but smile as the electric spell she'd placed against lockpickers discharged with a loud pop, followed by a yelp of surprise and a stream of profanity. By Ellesméra, he knew words that would make a soldier blush.

"That's how you want it, then?" He growled, "Fine! Have it your way!"

She heard him walk away, feeling a bit disappointed. Honestly, she had expected, perhaps even hoped, that he would keep trying; it provided her with a good distraction. Besides, such respect for others' wishes was uncharacteristic of him. For a moment, she savored the thought that this outburst of maturity on his part might be due to her own influence –

_"FUS!"_

The door went flying off its hinges and collided with the room's other side, tearing pieces of stone with it as it went. It had been hurled with such force, it brought down the opposing wall, opening the room to the hallway behind it and leaving a pile of rubble in its wake. He poked his head through the cloud of dust and, sure enough, he was grinning.

She hadn't considered adding a spell against wall demolishing.

"Oops." He said innocently, approaching.

"Oops?" She repeated, fury rising up from the pit of her stomach, "You've just turned my room into a corridor."

"I sneezed."

That did it. Pushing the lute away, she reached out for her sword, intent on skewering him until he left. He noticed her act, following her movements with his eyes attentively. When her hand touched the cool hilt of the blade, she took a deep breath, changing her mind. This man had seen her out of her cool once; she refused to let it happen again.

He seemed determined to test her resolve.

He plopped down on the bed next to her, _shoes on her bed sheet, _and she stiffened, sitting up. He gave her the sweetest of smiles, and she couldn't help but stare intently in his eyes, searching for any traces of the savage beast she'd seen him become. She found none.

"What makes you think you can just get in my bed like this?" She hissed.

He frowned a bit, still smiling. "Is my presence arousing in you a secret, unspoken desire to have sex with me?"

_What the..?_

"This is outrageous –"

"Well, then I fail to see what bothers you."

He had a point – didn't he always? His actions might hold no political intent, but he was an amazing smooth-talker. After what she'd seen, she couldn't help but wonder whether that came from the part of him that was mortal or from the one that was _divine._

He put a hand on her shoulder and she didn't bother shrugging it off. She met his gaze firmly.

"What do you want, Colin?" She asked. Her tone held no irritation, only a tired somberness.

From the beginning, Arya could never truly guess his intentions. She was good at reading people, but his mind eluded her – it was just too alien, too different. It went beyond a knowledge gap; she doubted he'd deny her any information. No, he just didn't _think_ like anything she knew – not like an elf, not like a human, not like a dwarf or even an Urgal.

He had the mindset of something out of this world.

_Wonder why, _she ironically scolded herself.

"To apologize." He answered, snapping her out of her thoughts.

There - she was caught off guard, again. He resumed speaking before she could get over her surprise to ask for clarification.

"Back there, with Varaug. There are many excuses I could give, and most of them would be the truth - but whether it was reasonable or not doesn't matter. I hit you with Dragonrend, and I just wanted you to know I am sorry."

Dragonrend. She suppressed a shiver at the name. The mortality, the crippling mortality, something she'd never even imagined possible. Painful as it had been, she was somehow grateful for it; it had shaken her world and given her a new perspective, particularly on humans. She realized she now understood them less, but knew them better.

"You needn't apologize," She replied honestly, "I see how it was necessary. The Shade would surely have killed me otherwise."

"Yes." He retorted simply.

He said no more. She looked at him – he seemed to be expecting something. He reached out to her lute and began fiddling with it. She frowned. What was he waiting for? Colin was usually very straightforward; this reluctant behavior was unusual of him. It was almost as if he expected – _Oh_.

He was there to answer her questions.

Except she just didn't know what to ask.

"Why you?" She blurted out without thinking.

He faced her, tilted his head a bit with confusion. "I often ask myself the same."

His answer did not discourage her; to the contrary, she now knew precisely what she wanted to know.

"Are you… you, because you were like this before? Or were you always you?"

Once the words were out of her mouth, she realized they didn't really make much sense. It didn't matter though; he seemed to catch her meaning.

With one question out, many others formed up in her head, curiosity overshadowing her grief. She had been taken her to the presence of a so called 'god', and the experience had been something so beyond her imagination, she couldn't even begin to form queries about it. Hircine had been… powerful. Terrifying. Incomprehensible.

Arya couldn't find words that properly described the intensity of the meeting; she reckoned they might not even exist. She'd need time to form a sound opinion about something so extraordinary – centuries, maybe.

She did have something much closer to her reality, though. Next to her stood a man who claimed to be part mortal, part Divine. Hadn't she watched with her own eyes as his words brought fire, ripped walls, released his soul in the shape of a dragon and even bent time itself? Was that not the power attributed to the gods? And there he was, patiently waiting for her to sate her curiosity. She didn't even know where to start.

"You mean whether I am who I am because I'm Dragonborn, or whether I was like this before and got chosen for being me?"

She nodded.

That was important – was he chosen by his gods for being someone special, or was it his 'godly' blood that made him that way? Did the Divines prize a specific way of behaving, or was it their touch on him that made him act the way he did? What was he first, Colin or the Dragonborn?

He gave an amused half-smile.

"I can never be sure… Although, I believe the answer is neither. I do, however, have a theory, and it is a curious tale, if you care to hear it."

She nodded again, waiting for him to continue.

"The _Dovah Sil, _dragon soul, is something you are born with. When the heroes of old sent Alduin to the future, it was predicted that the Last Dragonborn and the World-Eater would enter Nirn together."

"So you were born when he entered your world?" She asked.

That was somehow impractical. She doubted Alduin would hold back the apocalypse until the Dragonborn was old enough to defeat him. They'd have to find the baby with the dragon soul, hide him and train him until it was time, all the while avoiding the rummaging dragons.

He shook his head. "I'll get to that. The last Dragonborn lineage, the Septims, died two hundred years ago, and there had been no words of a new one ever since. The Blades, responsible for searching, had been disbanded after the White-Gold Concordat, leaving no one to find the heir to the bloodline."

There was a lot of political background she was missing, but she decided to let him carry on with the story. He stopped for a bit, measuring his next words carefully.

"I could go on about my motivations, but I won't. It doesn't matter." He began to look deeply troubled, and it made her even more intrigued.

"Suffice to say, I was seventeen when I decided to return to Skyrim. I tried to avoid the official road; there was a slim possibility the imperial guards would recognize me as a wanted criminal. So I crossed the border from Morrowind – it was the one less used, and thus I had a smaller chance to get in trouble."

Colin scoffed. From his look of disdain, Arya could tell his plan had failed epically. She was itching to ask what he was wanted for, but decided it would make no difference on his tale. He didn't miss her look of wonder, though.

"Theft, mostly, and the eventual smuggling. A numbers job or two." He said, waving it off. "Enough to be a bother, but nothing too serious. Anyway, I got caught in the middle of an imperial ambush when I was crossing. They mistook me for a Stormcloak rebel, tied me down and hauled me up a cart to my execution."

"Just like that?" She asked incredulously, "No trial?"

He shrugged. "They would have given me one, under normal circumstances. But it so happened that they had caught the leader of the rebellion, and they just wanted to be done with him and the war as soon as possible."

"You don't resent them for it?" she insisted, "Most people tend to hold a grudge when unfairly condemned to death."

"What's the point? Their reasons were wrong, but not the execution itself. I was not a rebel, but still a criminal anyway. I deserved it. I still do."

She wasn't sure whether to classify his perspective as self-destructive behavior or just indifferent honesty. Possibly a mix of both.

"Perhaps. But it could have been an innocent," Arya argued.

"An innocent would be crossing the official border," He shot back.

He was right, there. Still, executions with no trials were nothing short of barbaric. She decided to drop it anyway, and motioned for him to continue.

"The year was two hundred and one of the fourth era. The day, Seventeenth of Last Seed. They took me to Helgen, together with the other rebels, to have my head removed."

Colin paused, knowing he had her full attention.

"They called me to the block, and I put my neck on it. It was still slick with the blood of the man before me. The headsman lifted his axe… and that was when he came into Nirn. Alduin. He landed on the tower in front of me, making the guards scatter, and he looked me in the eyes, and he Shouted."

"And?" She prodded eagerly when he did not continue.

"I am not sure," He said with a bit of hesitation.

"Tell me what you think." She urged.

"I… Well. Alduin Shouted directly at me, and for what seemed like eternity, it all went black. That, I believe, is when I died."

"You…died?" She repeated with skepticism.

"The _Dovah Sil_ is not something you can get, Arya. You're born with it, or you are not. I wasn't – not until that moment. It all went black, and when I opened my eyes, something had changed. "

"You can't simply come back from the dead." She protested, obstinate.

He lifted his eyebrows critically. "I can think of at least five different means to reach undeath, and that's without even making an effort."

Right. Because whatever rules there were, he just had to break them – not even the most fundamental things were left untouched.

"Can you prove it?"

She had asked just for the sake of asking – she already believed him. After all, what was raising the dead next to summoning a god?

He scowled.

"I'd rather not, thank you very much. I have enough Daedra on my tail; I have no desire of adding Meridia to that list. Besides, it's not simply undeath I'm talking about – its rebirth."

He locked eyes with her, the intense blue making her fight a shiver.

"I died right then and there, and I was born again as _Dovahkiin_. We entered Nirn together, as prophecy dictated."

A hint of wonder grew on his gaze.

"Tricky, tricky gods. It makes beautiful sense, don't you think? That Akatosh's last child would be Alduin's first kill."

It did. The reasonable part of her shouted that resurrection was something impossible, but the protests were quickly silenced with memories of her previous encounters with gods and spirits – they should have been impossible, too. Plus, it wasn't just a matter of bringing someone back from the dead, but something deeper – rebirth.

It was, Arya mused, such an elegant solution. The Dragonborn could not be born before Alduin, and the World-Eater could not be defeated by a newborn baby. Birth, rebirth – a twisting of words, so inherently brilliant, she couldn't help but compare it to the shrewdest politicians. In a way, it reminded Arya of her mother, with her crafty plots. But, most of all, it was a response so creative, so unexpected, she couldn't help but think it was something Colin would do.

Which brought her back to point zero. Was his creativeness something he inherited from Akatosh, or was he picked by the Divines for being creative? Or maybe, was it something characteristic to all of his land?

"You believe you were chosen, then?" She questioned.

To her surprise, he laughed.

"Chosen? Me? No, Little Elf," He gave her a bright smile, "I was an unfortunate accident. Or perhaps the Elder Scrolls didn't like their prophecy twisted, so they used me to get revenge on Akatosh."

Arya cocked a quizzical eyebrow. "Explain."

"There were at least twenty Stormcloaks to be executed that day, including Ulfric himself. All brave Nords, noble men and women, experienced warriors, true sons of Skyrim. All of whom would have loved to be the legendary Dragonborn."

Colin made an exasperated, vague gesture with his hands.

"But, when the _Dovah Sil_ sought a host, whose head was on the block? Who was the first to die by Alduin, the only one in time to be reborn? _Me_. The cheating, immoral, unpatriotic, sneaky thief. The kid who wasn't even out of his teens yet. I was a miscalculation – an unlucky coincidence."

He didn't let her speak any longer; he begun strumming a lazy tune with Glenwi – _her lute _ couldn't make up her mind on him. He had gone from a helpful stranger to an unhelpful prisoner to a powerful asset to an otherworldly part-Divine _creature_. And now he was telling her he was just a lost kid, someone who happened to be on the wrong place at the wrong time.

_Like Eragon_.

But Eragon hadn't turned into a demigodly-powerful being… or had he? She realized it must seem that way for his fellow mortals. The rider had grown a lot ever since she met him, and she could only imagine just how much he had changed for those who had known him since childhood.

They weren't so different, those two – at heart, they were just people who got dealt a bad hand. Colin just seemed more powerful because he came from a world where people had to fight dragons and deal with mad gods on a daily basis. His confidence was just an attitude, a façade as elaborate as her own; he was powerful, yes, but he bled like anyone else. She had gradually been forming a picture of him as some sort of holy mighty creature, and now it was broken and she was left with an incognito. Again.

She wondered if she was trying the wrong approach to his figure. So far she'd asked about his world and his powers and his deities, but very little about _him_. She knew he was a thief and a dragon hunter, that he had a sharp tongue and that he enjoyed making people lose their calm, but that was about it.

Perhaps that was what she was missing. Arya had thought by knowing his world, she would get to know him, but that was apparently not true. She never thought she would have to ask Colin about his past as a thief and a scoundrel, like she'd never had to ask Eragon about his past as a farm boy. As a general rule, thieves, not unlike farm boys, were easy to understand. But then again, Eragon hadn't sprouted from a parallel universe.

She sighed. Maybe that was for the best. If there was one thing life had been trying to tell her lately, it's that sometimes, ignorance was bliss.

Too bad she could be one hell of a slow learner when she wanted to.

"Do you have any family, Colin?" She said suddenly.

He turned to face her, his gaze analytic. "Hmm… I'm brother to every existent dragon. You know, on my father's side."

Evasiveness. He indeed never denied her information about his world, but the same could not be said about his own life. Maybe she'd been asking the wrong questions all along – information worth hiding was usually information worth knowing.

"Your only relatives are dragons?" She questioned, playing along. "I think you might be adopted."

He chuckled. "Why, I didn't know you had a sense of humor, Little Elf. Truth be told, I'm a race in extinction – they don't call me the Last Dragonborn for nothing."

She rolled her eyes. "You know that's not what I meant."

"Why the sudden interest?"

Arya shrugged, deciding the truth would be the best answer. "I'm just trying to understand you."

A narrowing of eyes, a sly smile. "Oh? And how is it going so far?"

"Not very well," She admitted, and he laughed. "You turn uncooperative when I touch personal subjects. I suspect there's something you want to keep hidden."

"Mmh. It's just uninteresting. I grew up in an orphanage with a crazy abusive headmistress. Ran away at ten before she got me killed. Never met any relatives or such."

She didn't really know what she expected, but _that _wasn't it. His whole behavior and his confident and reckless attitude always made her think he was a thief by choice and not by circumstance, but it turned out that might not be the case. He probably became a criminal for the sake of survival. He noticed her silence.

"So, did it add to my heroic persona?" He said with the ever-present sarcastic edge.

She blinked. "I – I'm sorry." She said, perceiving how insensitively she was acting – he had just told her he never met his parents and all she had done was stare off into space.

A slight scowl. A spark of anger. "Well, I'm not," He snapped back.

_He doesn't want your pity._

His reaction surprised her. Arya had certainly noticed how imperiously Colin had acted while in the Dragon Aspect, but she had never realized he was usually this proud. It wasn't just a matter of thinking highly of himself; he was assertive and lofty, not unlike Saphira.

A tired sigh. A look of resignation. "You know how some people dream of happy families?"

Oh, she knew. She often dreamed of it herself. She experienced very little of it in her early years, before The Fall, her father's death and her mother's subsequent detachment. Perhaps it was just her childish perception of things, but she liked to think at that time, they were truly happy. Plus, it somehow felt better than thinking she was just fruit of a political move of her mother's to continue the bloodline and secure her place as the queen.

She nodded absently.

A smirk. A mischievous twinkle. "Well, I'm not one of them. I like the food, the mead and the women. I like the gold, the adventuring and the thrill of danger. So, honestly? I don't miss it. At all."

He was the perfect embodiment of the word 'rascal'. Incorrigibly immoral, professed criminal, gluttonous, greedy and lascivious. And _yet, _he had done the impossible and healed – _but she did not want to think about that. _And _yet_, he had gone out of his way to help her meet a dead friend. He wasn't evil, just goddamn despicable, and he seemed to do it on purpose.

She _still_ couldn't figure him out.

Something else occurred to her then. "Have you ever been with a woman, Colin?"

He made a face of amazed incredulity, as if he couldn't believe her question. She clarified it before he could say what would undoubtedly be a smartass comeback.

"I meant actual, serious relationships, not just the ones you've bedded."

He lifted his brows in comprehension and possibly disappointment. "Ah. Well, back in Skyrim, long periods of courting and dating are not culturally usual. You can have casual, non-compromising one night stands, or you can get married. No middle term. This sort of 'long term affair' is uncommon."

Though she found his culture interestingly similar to that of elves, he was still dodging the question.

"That's not what I asked."

He rolled his eyes. " Yes, I have engaged a serious relationship with a woman. Once."

"And what happened?" She prodded eagerly.

"Nothing _happened; _we're still best friends. As I said, this kind of relationship is not usual. Plus, werewolves are rather complex when it comes down to relationships. When Skjor died, the pack-alpha position fell to Vilkas by default, so by all rights he had first claims in courting her. He didn't mind Aela and I together, but it left a tension in the air - as if I was challenging his authority."

She was perhaps missing something there, but the impression his explanation had passed was that of him dating a doggish female version of a werecat. Very, very disturbing.

"So your lover was…a canid?"

His lips twisted in oddly animalistic fashion; he seemed to be half smiling, half baring fangs. It was quite… lupine. Disturbingly so.

"Only part time."

They fell into silence, and he resumed whatever song he'd been playing before. Arya's thoughts whirled in frustration. His world was too different and he was too different and it was maddening, but also a bit pleasant. She enjoyed challenges. She realized _that_ was why she tolerated him – he was a perplexing, intriguing puzzle.

"And that was it? No more women in your life?" She persisted.

A brief breaking of eye contact, a slight mistune on his music. "It is not culturally usual, and plus, not many people want to get into a serious affair with a part-dragon scoundrel."

His voice had an acid ring to it, but lacked any resentment. Arya felt the matter itself didn't bother him, but he clearly didn't like her questioning. Her attention to the little signals gave away his answer was not quite a lie, but it wasn't the whole truth, either. She weighted it down, wondering if it would be worth pursuing. It didn't cost to try.

"Come now, there must be someone who caught your eye."

He dropped the lute, leaned against the bed headboard and crossed his hands behind his head, slouching back lazily.

"Takes a bit more than catching my eye to make me settle down, Little Elf. I know what you're looking for. The answer is no. No, there is no woman in any world that'll turn me into a decent person."

"I don't believe you. I think there _is_ a woman, and you're just in denial."

He burst out laughing. She allowed herself to relax a bit, leaning back as well.

"Well, what do you know… here I am, discussing my love life with an elf. Since you insist, I'll tell you – there might be a woman. There are also too many obstacles, and don't you dare telling me 'love beats everything'."

"Well, didn't you kill a god? What would dare to get between you and the woman of your dreams?" She teased.

He shrugged. "A _whole pantheon_ of gods? And there's a bit of an age gap, too. She's older."

Arya did not like where he was taking the conversation. She had the feeling he was baiting her, but she couldn't quite disarm the trap. Not replying would probably be wiser, but it would also kill the conversation. She hesitated a bit.

"So she doesn't quite believe your feelings because to her eyes, you are young and inexperienced, acting harshly?"

"Hmm, doubt that. I was just a bit disturbed when I realized she's older than the ninth divine." He locked eyes with her and grinned. "What I do think, Little Elf, is that's how _you_ feel about Eragon."

_Son of a harlot._

She clenched her teeth. "That is really none of your business –"

"You mean it is okay to talk about my love life but not about yours? Seems fair."

She opened her mouth to snap something back but he jumped off the bed and interrupted her.

"No, that's okay. I won't prod."

She cocked her eyebrow skeptically. "You…won't?"

He offered her his hands and she took it, letting him help her up.

"Nay, I'm taking you out and getting you drunk, and _then_ I'll prod in your personal life."

"I don't drink," She said, repeating the same excuse she'd used with him before.

"First time for everything," He replied, then crossed his arms over his chest, looking her over critically. "Couldn't you wear something better?"

She noticed for the first time he wasn't in his usual attire. His armor had been exchanged for a noble-looking robe – stolen, no doubt –, heavy boots traded for more comfortable shoes, and even his hair was combed and damp, as if recently washed. Dressed up like that, he seemed almost…civil.

"You bathed," she pointed out provokingly.

He scowled. "Har, har. You can't say the same, can you?"

True, that. She was still covered in gore from the battle, hair disheveled, bruises all over, wearing her chainmail and the thick-cloth pants she wore below her armor. She looked a wreck, but then again, she felt like one. It brought her mind back to the matter of just how long she'd been sitting there – time enough for Colin to raid a wardrobe, bathe, dress up and decide he felt like bothering her. Time enough for her fingertips start bleeding.

Suddenly, getting inebriated didn't seem like such a bad idea.

She shrugged. "Wasn't expecting any visitors. No matter, though."

Arya muttered a spell that dispelled the dirt form her and her clothing, then ran a hand through her hair to make it look at least decent. Turning back, she saw Colin looked slightly horrified. She shot him a quizzical look.

"Oh Divines," He muttered, "I do hope you bathe every once in a while. I mean, I have nothing against magical clean ups, but showering is quite hygienic. You should try it."

She rolled her eyes and held back a vicious comeback as she unclasped and removed the chainmail, leaving visible the now-clean tunic below.

"I _will_ clean myself properly later; I just assumed you were in a bit of a hurry, and when I do decide to bathe, I'll want to spend at least an hour on it."

"Hmm. Can't you at least put on a dress?"

"No." The response was almost an impulse. She despised dresses – probably because her mother had insisted on them so much when she was younger.

Colin sighed. "You do realize this persistence of yours in wearing inappropriate clothing will mean we'll have to go to a shady tavern, right? No decent place will let you in like _that_."

The woman shrugged. "They wouldn't let me in anyway, being an elf and all, and I really don't feel like magically masking my face human."

He grunted what she took as an agreement and they walked through the hole in the wall and down the stairs that would lead them outside, where she found out, much to her surprise, that it was already night. She followed him through the city, from bigger boulevards to gradually narrower and dirtier streets. She didn't know where he was taking them - she just assumed he'd know where to find the closest obscure pub.

Sure enough, he soon stopped in front of a door that was so filthy, Arya thanked whatever nonexistent deity who had created elves for her race's strong immune system. They entered together, drawing glares from the dirty thuggish men within. It was the typical underworld place – badly illuminated, unclean, filled with criminals and lowlifes. The patrons, all of them male, did not even try to hide the lascivious looks they gave her. Disgusting.

She let her hand grasp the hilt of her blade, expecting the fight that was sure to come. Though they'd tried to avoid it as best as possible, she'd been in places like this before, with Faolin and Glenwing. It always went the same - they got in, mean looks were exchanged, one of the customers would start a fight, they'd beat everyone to pulps and then _finally_, after they'd proven their toughness, they would be able to buy the damn supplies.

She waited for the challenging voice that would bring out the fight, but it never came. Colin walked over to a table in the corner and Arya followed tensely behind. He sat down, seeming perfectly at ease, and motioned for a waitress, who hurried inside. And, just like that, everyone returned to whatever illegal business they had been doing. She frowned.

"How did you do that?"

Her question confused him. "Care to elaborate?"

"That," She motioned vaguely with her hands, "You just waltzed in like you owned the place, walked over to a table and no one even bothered to look twice. I mean, every time Lin, Glen and I got into a place like this, there was a fight. No exceptions."

He let out a joyous laughter at that. She looked around nervously, afraid it would draw attention, but the sound seemed not to propagate, almost as if swallowed by the shadows and the unfamiliar faces.

_Night among strangers._

The thought was so abrupt and arbitrary, she rechecked her mental defenses, afraid it had an external source. She found her mind untouched, however.

"You have to look the part," Colin replied.

She eyed him over. "Well, you're dressed like a noble, in the middle of a bunch of thieves, criminals and suspicious unknown people."

_Night among strangers Night among strangers Night among strangers_

He smirked. "Exactly. It shows that I am efficient enough to steal from the rich and bold enough to show it. It's intimidating, see?"

It didn't make any sense at all, but she decided to let it slide. The waitress returned, placing two tankards on the table. Colin produced a coin from gods know where and handed it over, muttering for her to keep the change. The woman took it, stopped, gave him an appreciative, lusty look then turned and walked off, swaying her hips exaggeratedly. On her way, she gave Arya a look of such loathing she blinked with surprise.

_What the –?_

What was she even doing at that place, at that hour and with that man anyway? She should be back at the godsdamned castle, catching up to months of godsdamned reports to send to her trice-damned mother. What would the queen even think of her behavior?

She took the nearest flagon and drunk it down in a gulp. It tasted like piss. Colin looked at her, feigned astonishment, and swallowed his own drink in similar fashion. Before he could even call the waitress again, she was there, exchanging their cups. Or, wait, that was another woman. Arya watched her go and rejoin her workmates, who received her with hushed speech.

_Secrets in the dark._

She reached out for the drink, but her hand was halted by his. They looked at each other and he glared, vaguely accusatory. She let herself muse over his eyes' unusual color – intense, like the sky, as opposed to the Alagaesian's brown, distant from the elves' usual light shades, different even from her own leaf-green.

She slapped his hand away, took the cup and drunk the whatever-it-was. He frowned.

"Arya…" He begun with a tone of warning.

"What?" She snapped, "Isn't that what you brought me here for?"

He let out a low growl. "I brought you here so that you could relax and talk about it, not drink yourself into a coma."

Quicker than he could react, she snatched his own replacement cup from the table and gulped it down. She gave him a spiteful look and his growl turned into a snarl. Another girl, another pair of flagons – this one left quickly, no doubt noticing the tension. Again she reached, but this time, he gripped a firm hold on her wrist.

"Arya, they're dead."

Pain. Lacerating pain. It was like losing her father all over again.

_Don't think about it._

"You'll have to deal with it eventually."

Gods, she hated him so much right then. He released her wrist, but she had already dropped the cup. She knew if she let herself think about it, it would all come crashing down at once. She also knew resistance was futile. She'd eventually return to Ellesméra, and there would be no one to greet her, nothing but her mother's cold distance gaze.

No warm embrace from the one who had become her second father. No more playful smoke puffs from a golden three-legged dragon. _Four_ legged, if the rumors she'd picked up were true. She hadn't had the heart to actually ask Colin about it. It didn't matter anymore. Arya's fingers wrapped around the tankard and she let the beverage spill in her throat again.

He frowned the slightest, called in one of the passing girls and said something intelligible. Coins exchanged hands, much more this time. He sipped a bit of his own drink, and they remained in a comfortable silence for a while. Arya let her eyes wander around the room, to the many ugly dirty men who spoke in quiet tones.

_Secrets in the dark Secrets in the dark Secrets in the dark_

The waitress returned, this time with a smaller glass filled with clear liquid. Colin motioned for her to have it.

"I thought I was not supposed to drink myself into a coma?"

He shrugged. "You will have to deal with it, eventually," He repeated, "Just maybe not today. Now, will you have that or shall I?"

She had it, feeling the beverage burn as it went down her throat. The effect was immediate. She rested her head on her hands, feeling a little sick. All that alcohol with an empty stomach was probably unhealthy.

A pleasant buzz exploded through her head and her vision grew fuzzy. Her previously agitated thoughts were now muddled and quieter, and she appreciated the feeling. Her mind drifted away from the dark, serious places and deviated to lighter subjects. For instance, now that she was drunk enough to mind over such things, she realized those waitresses were clearly swooning at her companion.

_Night among stragers._

Arya didn't have the habit of observing bodies simply because there was little to look at; all elves were physically perfect and all humans were flawed somehow. Although she did notice when someone looked particularly devilish. Faolin, for instance, had been stunning, to her utter delight-demise. He'd had a rare combination of red hair and light grey-blue eyes, which had looked _really fucking great_ – something he'd always made a point to remind her.

She never really looked at humans, dwarves and Urgals at all, for the simple fact she found it difficult to judge beauty on other species. At first, when she was still new in dealing with them, she tended to search for things such as scars, which might indicate battle prowess, but with time, even that became irrelevant - she could easily take on their best and strongest anyway. Humans may have been an exception, considering the similarities between the two races, but she'd always found the premise odd.

Though now that it was brought to her attention, she wished she'd been a bit more mindful, because Colin really _did_ look quite different. Remarkable blue eyes aside, he had a fully different body and face build. He was taller and had broader shoulders than most men – indeed, he was probably as big as Ajihad, though while the Varden leader had been lithe, the Dragonborn was sturdy.

And then there was his skin. Skin tones in Alagaesia ranged from the rarer Nasuada-dark-skinned to the elves' own tawny color, the usual being a middle-term tan. But Colin was white. As in really, really white – the kind of skin tone she usually associated with dwarves who stayed years without ever seeing the sun.

_Secrets in the dark._

Come to think of it, she had never met anyone quite as light-skinned as him. He wasn't simply white, he was almost _translucent_ –except for those areas in his skin which were pinkish-red and peeling from sunburn.

Heck, it wasn't even summer.

"…'cha looking at?"

She realized she'd been staring.

"You're pale," she said sheepishly. "Are you feeling well?"

He seemed to take offense to that. His brows twitched in irritation, and now that she was looking, she could almost _see_ the blood through his skin.

"Well, your ears are really pointy," He replied. "Are _you_ feeling well?"

She frowned. "I'm an elf. We have pointy ears."

"And I'm a Nord. We have fair skin." He scoffed a little. "I'm not even that pale, if you look at other Nords. You should see Serana - or, better yet, Gelebor. The Falmer are even more light-skinned than the Nords."

In hindsight, maybe pointing out one of his race's physical characteristics as a sickness symptom was a bit rude. Blame the alcohol. Maybe his people were underground dwellers like the dwarves; it would explain the skin tone. Or perhaps he came from a really cold place – maybe his people were mountain-people. She let her drunken mind toy with the possibilities as she resumed analyzing him.

The ebony locks that framed his face seemed somehow off. She couldn't quite explain why, but with his complexion, she'd expect his hair to be blonde instead of jet-black. A mixed heritage, perhaps. It did not look bad per se, just different - _exotic_.

Yes, that was the word which described him perfectly. He was fully exotic – his thoughts, his body, his actions, all of them were alien. She could understand the women's interest; it was not that he was gorgeous, he was just intriguingly foreign.

_Night among strangers._

"You're an odd man, Colin. I wish I knew your motives, I really do." She admitted.

He eyed her seriously. "To put it simply? I do what I want."

It wasn't much of an explanation, but she supposed it was the truth nonetheless. Again, she didn't answer. They weren't having much of a dialogue anyway, and the silence felt comfortable enough. She let her mind return to trivialities.

She liked it, sitting down and doing nothing in particular. She used to do that a lot back with Faolin and Glenwing – there had been plenty of time while they carried the egg around. Back then, she hadn't needed the alcohol. That was a bit concerning. Still, she found the situation oddly comforting.

She was sitting in a place she did not particularly like, in the company of a man she did not particularly like, having a drink she did not particularly like, and all in all, it was really not that bad. Colin was an almost-stranger to her and yet she found some sort of intimacy with him she could not find with others she'd known for much longer. Their relationship was free of political maneuvering, free of scheming.

The sad part was that some, such as Eragon, did try to build a true friendship, yet she could never truly pour her heart out to him because of his position. It was inappropriate – she could not burden their future savior with her petty problems. It was also politically unwise to have anything more than a professional relationship with him, given her place as queen-to-be and his as last free rider. And there was always the little matter of Eragon's… romantic interest on her.

It wasn't that he was unattractive – he really wasn't. It wasn't that he was a bad person – he wasn't, either. It wasn't even solely a matter of maturity, though that was definitely part of it. No, the real issue there was that she was an elf while Eragon was a half-human…something. And elves did _not_ mix.

She's been taught from an early age that her race was superior, physically and mentally, from all the others. Though she was more than old enough to develop her own point of view, it was a persistent little bias and, in the end, her opinion didn't even matter. To her people, she was a public figure. And, to her people's eyes, any sort of involvement with a lowly human was nothing short of abominable.

Even if said human was part elf, it didn't make it better – quite to the contrary, said being was nothing short of an aberration. Of course, there were those with different opinions and open minds – She was one of them, Faolin had been one of them, Oromis had been one of them. Her mother did not belong in that group, nor did the vast majority of her race.

Arya was so deep in wonder, she almost jumped when a gust of wind got in through the window, blowing off half the candles. The already dark tavern was suddenly much shadier, and even with her sharp vision, she had to struggle to see the other side of the table. There was a moment of pure silence, then the whispering restarted, seeming even more hushed.

_Secrets in the dark._

What the hell was going on with her head, anyway? What did those lines even mean? Was that what they called artistic inspiration? Maybe she should write those down and show them at the next Blood-Oath celebration. Maybe Oromis would know –

She bit her lip so hard it broke the skin. The waitresses had long grown tired of refilling their cups, so they just placed bottles on the table instead. Her hand lingered toward the alcohol, but she stopped, deciding enough was enough. She really didn't want to be carried back to her room. One of the girls walked around, relighting the candles, and Arya determined it was high time they left.

She opened her mouth to call Colin but something stopped her. His stance had changed almost imperceptibly, losing the air of relaxation. She could tell, from the slight tensing of his muscles, that something had him vigilant. Not an 'imminent-ambush' alert, but 'something-is-off' alert nonetheless. Not good. Not good at all.

"Colin, I think we should –" _Night_ _among strangers. Secrets in the dark. Night among stangers. Secrets in the dark. " – _Shit!_"_

She propped her head in her hands. This was getting ridiculo – _Night among strangers secretes in the dark night among strangers –_

"What's wrong?" His voice had a slight edge to it.

"These – these verses. They keep looping and looping in my head."

"Oh? I never took you for a poet, Little Elf. Recite them for me, will you?" He spoke without looking at her.

His eyes were darting nervously across the room, fingers tapping on the table.

"Night among strangers -"

His head snapped on her direction, eyes wide.

" – Secrets in the dark," He finished. "That's _her_ call. She's here."

A feeling of foreboding squeezed her chest.

"What? Who -?"

Another wind, and the candles went out again, all of them. They were engulfed in darkness and absolute silence. Then, slowly, the little raspy whispers began again, but the voices of others were more unsettling than comforting. The pleasant buzz of the alcohol vanished from her mind instantly; there was nothing quite as sobering as fear.

_Night among strangers. Secrets in the dark._

The temperature dropped abruptly, so much she could suddenly see her breath through the thick darkness. She felt something warm grab her hand, and realized it was only Colin. With a squeeze, he signaled her to stay still - or at least she hoped that was what he meant. Maybe the two of them should make up a secret handshake.

_Night among strangers. Secrets in the dark._

_Nocturnal is here._

Her blood froze in her veins. She racked her head for any mentions of the name to give her clues to what was going on. Nocturnal, Nocturnal, where had she heard that before?

The candle on her table lit by itself, casting a flickering light that seemed oppressed by the darkness around them. It was barely enough for her to see across, to the Dragonborn's half-visible face. His hand released her, and he seemed oddly… at ease. His peace should have been reassuring, but it had the opposite effect. She was honestly spooked.

Colin closed his eyes and bowed his head respectfully.

"It is always an honor, my Prince."

_Fuck._

She remembered where she'd heard the name – from the mouth of a crazy god when they had been looking for Hircine. She definitely didn't feel like dealing with that right then. Or ever again.

No reply. She hoped against hope that maybe, just maybe, he was wrong and they were not in the presence of a powerful dangerous deity.

He kept his eyes closed, and a creepy mass of shadows came from behind him, touching his arms and crawling up to his face. The thin dark strings looked almost like a caressing hand, and she saw him shiver.

_"As well as it should be, Dragonborn."_

The voice did not have any source; instead, it seemed like a whisper detached from the hushed background murmuring. Unquestionably feminine, with a sure tone of authority. Colin's lips twitched in an almost smile.

"Well, it is not always a pleasure."

The tendrils moved from his cheeks to his neck, and the caressing motions turned into ones akin to strangling.

_"You seem to have wrong ideas of who has to please whom."_

He grinned and opened his eyes.

"Oh? Could you shed _light_ upon the matter, my Lady?"

She half expected for him to have his throat torn open right then. Instead, there was a sound of disturbing laughter. The shadows receded from his skin and bundled together in one of the table's empty chairs, slowly taking the shape of a woman. She was literally cowled by the darkness, which moved like silk around her skin, covering almost all of her body and face. With some effort, Arya could make out her mouth, and it was twisted in amusement.

"You never fail to humor me, dear child."

Nocturnal's voice was clear now, and it felt cold and sharp, like a piercing steel knife.

"See? I do aim to please," He replied merrily.

No words were spoken, but Arya's presence was certainly acknowledged. Nocturnal casually tilted her head a bit and the elf accidentally caught her eyes – big mistake. For a moment, her heart stopped and she felt herself being sucked in the black void. For a moment, she stared into the abyss – and the abyss stared back into her. And then Nocturnal moved again, leaving Arya's breathing uneven. She closed her fists to hide the shaking from her hands.

_Such power._

"What do you wish of me, my Prince?" Colin asked, changing from playful to serious.

"To _enlighten_ and to confuse you, as I deem fit. And to express my…disappointment." Her tone was demanding, almost harsh.

He frowned, as if genuinely disturbed by that. Not scared, she noticed, but actually distressed. Arya realized the way he acted around Nocturnal was much different than how he'd acted with Hircine. There was more between him and this goddess than a simple relation of servitude – the way he'd joked, the way he seemed comfortable around the Prince, she would dare say their relationship was almost parental.

He looked more or less like a child concerned about letting his mother down. Probably like Arya herself had looked before being scolded, back then when she'd truly cared about what her mother had to say.

"How have I wronged you, my Lady?"

Nocturnal's barely visible face twisted into a scowl. "Do you know what a hero is, Dragonborn?"

He blinked and tilted his head, looking sheepish. "I, uhh, never gave it much thought?"

The Prince let out a hiss of frustration, placing her face on her palm exasperatedly. "Perhaps your friend could answer, then?"

It took Arya a split second to realize the question was directed at her. Once she did, her mind went into overload. What was expected of her? What should she say? The sheer _power_ she'd felt when Nocturnal had looked at her was terrifying. If she said the wrong thing, she'd be dead and damned before she even knew it. She wasn't ready for this kind of situation. How did she even got into this anyway?!

"Sheogorath got your tongue?" The deity snapped icily. "I made you a question, elf. I expect an answer."

Arya was flooded with a mixture of dread and loathing. Dread, because she was already messing up and consequences could be really, really bad. Loathing, because she hated, _hated_ being commanded like that. She hated the forced authority, she hated being dominated by anyone or anything, be it a tyrannical monarch, her mother – though those two were much of the same – or a thrice-cursed god that shouldn't even exist on first place.

"I – I – " She stuttered.

Nocturnal shifted, and Arya was nearly trapped by her hellish void-eyes again. The daedra was growing impatient.

"A hero," The elf muttered, "Is someone noble and altruistic who acts for the greater good."

The Prince snorted with abhorrence.

"Pitiful," she said, then turned back to Colin. "Why mortals insist on such pathetic concepts is a mystery even to me. No, child, I'll tell you what a hero is."

Abruptly, the shadows lunged forward and engulfed her, swallowing her shape completely. The chair stood empty, as if no one had ever touched it.

_"A hero is someone like you, Dragonborn,"_ the whispery voice spoke again, _"Someone blessed – or cursed – with a special fate. With the ability to choose and rule their own destinies. Do you understand now how you have displeased me?"_

"Not quite," He admitted.

She materialized once more, behind him this time. He didn't turn around to look even as she placed her hands on his shoulders and squeezed harder than what could be considered comfortable. Again, the elf thought Nocturnal would commit gruesome murder, but the Prince seemed to treat Colin with exceptional patience – or at least twice as patiently as Arya herself had been treated.

"A man chooses, a slave obeys. What are you _doing_, Dragonborn? Ever since you've stepped on this land, what have you done? You have decided not to choose. You have simply gone with the tide."

He wrinkled his forehead and crossed his arms over his chest. "That's not true. I have made heaps of choices since I got here – like when I went to look for Hircine. Or when I fixed that dragon. You can't call that 'going with the tide.'"

Nocturnal released one of his shoulders and made a dismissive gesture with her hand. "On a side scale, maybe. But you have ignored the task you've been brought here to do; worse, you have resigned yourself to doing it without choosing so."

"I don't see –"

She vanished again, materializing to his side this time. She grabbed his hair and yanked on it, forcing him to face her. Below layers of terror and _yes_, concern for his safety, Arya would be lying if she said she wasn't enjoying it a bit. If someone deserved a severe reprimand, it was Colin. A pity the only ones with the morale do it were cross-dimensional deities.

_"You don't see because you refuse to look!"_

He met her stare without flinching, and Arya swore she could taste the thick tension in the air. Nocturnal's glare was a devouring void, but Colin's was no less intense, a soaring look to counter the abyss. They held it like that for a tense minute.

Colin dropped his gaze.

Nocturnal released him, satisfied, then half-walked, half-dissolved back to the empty chair. Shadows gathered in her shoulder, forming a shape that vaguely resembled a bird.

"I find you fighting for elves, rebels and dragons, and you dare say it was a decision you thought over? One you even bothered to make?"

That seemed to strike a nerve in him, and he winced. An alarm rung in Arya's head – if there was one thing she did not want, it was the Dragonborn having second thoughts about his side on the war. Could they win against Galbatorix without Colin? Possibly. Could they win against Galbatorix with Colin on the king's side? No, they couldn't.

It went beyond just his powers, beyond even his ability to knock a dragon from the sky with three words. His mindset was just different, and the king would surely notice that. Galbatorix would not hesitate to use it, use him – Colin would be given his own troops, he would come up with unthinkable tactics and the rebellion would be ruined.

It was not that the Varden did not have any great minds – Roran, for instance, was filled with amazing, useful ideas. It was a matter of politics – _always politics. _Nasuada could not afford to give power to her brightest members, for fear they would try to snatch the leadership for themselves, while Galbatorix had no such problems, since there was no one who could hope to match him.

So they were stuck with restrictive strategy, just hoping against hope that the king wouldn't decide to send his troops and end it all. He hadn't, so far, for no clear reason, but many things could change that and make the Empire strike back. Things such as the apparition of a very bright leader who was willing and able.

A leader who had no ambitions of power whatsoever and just wanted the war to end as soon as possible. A leader who would be completely gone once said war ended, providing no further trouble – and could, because of that, be trusted completely. An inspiring leader who could challenge a dragon in a one-on-one fight _and actually win_.

No, they definitely couldn't afford Colin changing sides. Unfortunately, Arya couldn't just outright challenge a deity, either. The damage had already been done, and she'd have to work on it later. And _of course_, the job of convincing him to stay would fall to her. After all, she was his… something-like-friend. Possibly his only something-like-friend in this world.

Nocturnal was next to him again, gently running one of her hands through his hair. The shadow before nestled in her shoulder had moved to her free hand, and it was easy to discern the shape of a nightingale. Colin had his eyes closed, head bowed, quietly giving in to the Prince's caresses.

A chill ran through Arya's back. It was eerie, very much so, the way he'd bent over completely to Nocturnal's will. She was reminded of how Saphira had behaved similarly, after recognizing Colin as her superior. With a dragon, that behavior had felt odd, despite being normal to the species. With a man, it was nothing short of creepy.

"I chose you because you can bend destiny," The daedra said, her cold voice contrasting sharply with her affectionate gestures. "Give that up, and you are of no use to me. Open your eyes."

He did as commanded. Nocturnal put her hand under his chin and tilted his head up, making him face her again. This time, though, there was none of the tension. Her gaze was almost lenient and his, disturbingly tame.

"I demand you be a man and not a slave. I will take no less from you. Have I made myself clear?"

"Clear as day, my Prince," He replied with a hint of humor.

"Good," She said as she dissipated. _"I have one task for you then, child. Are you willing?"_

"Always, my Lady," Colin answered promptly.

The response was immediate. The shadows which lingered around advanced towards him, covering him completely. The candlelight died down to nothing but a flicker, until Arya could not see –

_"Then do not disappoint me."_

The fire went out for less than a second and then, abruptly, the whole room was relit at once. The other patrons were still whispering and drinking, as if nothing had happened. And Colin was gone. Arya wanted to get up and leave, but something stopped her.

Something was off. Something _felt_ really off. Not the way no one seemed to notice anything, not even the way her something-like-friend had been swallowed by shadows. No, it was just this thing at the pit of her stomach, this sensation of unreality –

Something snatched her from behind and suddenly, she was falling – not down, but in every direction. The vertiginous sensation of speed and weightlessness without any direction made her stomach hurl –

She landed hard, but fortunately, something soft stopped her fall.

"Ow," her cushion complained.

She opened her eyes to find herself sprawled over a very humored Colin.

"Hey, next time, can I stay on top?" He asked, eyes twinkling.

She didn't bother to reply, instead rolling from over him and to her knees. She bent over and threw up, tasting bile and alcohol in her mouth. He was over her in a split second, chuckling as he held her head back then helped her up.

"First time through Oblivion, I take it?" He asked as he searched his pockets for something. "Don't worry, on my first time I also – no, wait, I didn't."

_Bastard._

He finally found what he'd been looking for. He took out a little vial and uncorked it, then handed it to her. She took a sip only to spit half of it out in revulsion – it tasted like a disgusting mixture of wheat, fungal mushrooms and something else she did not even want to _think _about.

He laughed some more.

_Fucking bastard._

It did somehow settle her stomach though, so she forced herself to swallow the rest, then gave her surroundings a look. She could see a nearby cave and a not-so-nearby Feinster in the distance.

"Where are we?" Arya asked her companion, who also seemed to be checking the place out.

"Hmm, if I had to guess, I'd say about an hour or two from the city," He replied.

_You don't say?_

"Any idea on what are we doing here?"

Colin shrugged. "I think Nocturnal wants us to go into that cave, there."

That sounded reassuring.

"Wait, 'us'?" She questioned. "I'm positive she said she had a task for _you._"

"Well, she did get you all geared up," He pointed out.

That's when she noticed they had both indeed been equipped. Both she and Colin were now clad in full set black leather, from gloves to hood to boots and armor. His sword had been exchanged for a black-bladed one, with a birdlike design on the pommel. She reached for her own weapon but it wasn't there. Instead, she now had an intricate black bow.

"What about my sword?" Arya asked as she pulled out the bow in order to examine it further.

Running her fingers through it, she felt the distinctive hum of magic. She tested the string and found out with surprise it bent perfectly – not too much, not too little, but just right. Her hand went out to her back and, sure enough, she found a quiver there.

"It's probably back in Feinster," he answered. "Or maybe not. Nocturnal _is_ the Prince of thieves, after all."

Great. Just great. It kept getting better and better.

Colin pulled up his hood and his face was almost completely hidden. Smiling, he rubbed his gloved hands together, making a tiny magical flame dance between his fingers. Then, he unsheathed his weapon and turned to face the cave.

"You coming?" He asked without looking at her.

Arya considered it for a moment. Though the Prince had not specifically demanded anything from her, Nocturnal's wishes were clear. And she couldn't very much deny a goddess and expect no retaliation. In the end, there wasn't really much of a choice there.

Nocturnal's words about choices and slaves crossed her mind, but she pushed the thought back. She could worry about philosophy later. She pulling up her own hood, she followed him along, and they snuck their way to the mouth of the cave,. There, he motioned for her to stop.

_"Lass Yah Niir"_

His whisper made her shiver a little. He bent to the side lightly and gave the cave a long, examining look. Then, he faced her. For a moment, light seeped through his hood and she could swear she had a glimpse of reptilian eyes.

"It goes straight on for a while then twists right in a side chamber. There are five people inside. If you're quick, you can pick at least two with your bow while I sneak around and get a third one. I think you'll have to try and avoid direct confrontation, since you only have a bow –"

"Wait, what?" She interrupted. "We're just going to waltz in and kill those people, just like that? Even though you don't even know who they are?"

"That was the plan, yes. Personal experience dictates this is the best way to deal with people in caves. Of course, feel free to go in and try to reason with them."

He gave her no time to argue back or even think about it, instead walking inside. Arya gritted her teeth and followed reluctantly. They moved together without making a sound, until the men inside the cave were fully visible. They were mostly drinking, and one of them was actually asleep. Then, to her surprise, Colin stepped out into the light.

"Hey!" He called out.

The reaction was immediate. The men drew their weapons and advanced. Arya quickly got over her surprise and started shooting, taking two down just as Colin leaped in and out of the shadows to take another one. The elf easily dodged a strike from a third man who had already approached then kicked him on the side, breaking ribs. That gave her enough time to pull another arrow and shoot her opponent right between the eyes.

On his side, Colin had finished the last one, and Arya turned to him furiously.

"What the hell?!" She hissed. "I thought the plan was to pick them off quietly?"

"I did it to keep your conscience clear," He explained as he walked to the bodies to retrieve the arrows. "I thought you'd feel better to kill them if they attacked first."

She irately snatched the projectiles from his hands, holding herself back so as to not hit him. His words were like a physical blow, and the painful veracity in them made her feel like a complete hypocrite. She _did_ feel less guilty, as wrong as it still was, as much as she would like to deny it.

"Are you _kidding_ me? You pretentious little – are you even listening?!"

He had given his back to her and was now moving from chests to shelves, unceremoniously pocketing coins.

"Not particularly, no," He shot back as he hastily examined some papers left on the table.

He began to loot the bodies then, and that was when she decided she'd seen enough. She walked to him and gave him a shove, determined to at least teach him some respect. His hood dropped down, and he gave her a confused look.

"What are you doing, you sick son of a –"

"Gathering information. As a general rule, Nocturnal does not give away the missions so easily – there it is."

He pulled down a filthy notebook and flipped through the pages, then handed it to her together with the papers he'd collected.

"I don't know what it says," He said, "But there are some maps and diagrams of cities there, together with what looks like a business ledger. I think they might've been smugglers or something of the sort."

She skimmed through the journal and what she found made her feel slightly sick.

"Not smugglers," She corrected, still scanning the pages. "Slavers. On a 'hunting job'. They were on their way to meet with a larger group on Dras-Leona and stopped here when they saw the city had been taken."

He got up and dusted himself, then walked around the cave, still searching.

"You think that's what Nocturnal wants?" Arya questioned.

It made sense, after all that talk of choosing and servitude, that the Prince would send them after slavers. Still, Dras-Leona? It was too far, and she couldn't simply leave the Varden for time enough, even if it was to ensure Colins allegiance.

"Hmm. Maybe." He didn't sound too confident of that.

He stopped in front of a shelf and pushed it to the side – it stuck. Arya frowned. Colin was a pretty big man, and the shelf shouldn't weight that much. She moved to help him and they pushed together – still nothing. Then something occurred to her.

"Why is this even here?" She wondered out loud. "It couldn't have been brought by them. They were only passing."

Colin moved to the front of the shelf and started dumping everything on the floor. Down went books, miscellaneous objects, a dagger – hey, she could use that – and even a skull.

"To hide something," He pointed out. "Something's off with this place."

She picked up the dagger and slid it into a pocket, then helped him remove the remaining contents. Down went some empty wine bottles, down a couple of old books. Still nothing. He groped around back of the shelf, looking for a false bottom. Nothing.

"Oh, for the love of Akatosh. Stand back, Little Elf."

She retreated a few steps –

"_Yol TOOR!_"

Flames lit up the cave, almost blinding her. The wooden shelf caught fire, and under the intense heat, was burnt down to a crisp. The black smoke it released covered the space and left her out of air. She cursed.

"I would like to remind you that fire releases fumes and we're not in the open_, you imbecile_!"

"Oops. My bad," He coughed.

She muttered a spell to disperse the smoke, not bothering to reprimand him any further. He moved forward and kicked the remnants of the shelf out of the way, revealing…

A wall.

Well, that was disappointing.

"Perhaps we should follow the lead on those slavers?" She interjected.

"Maybe," He replied, then hugged the wall and gave it a couple knocks. "But it sounds awfully like a fake lead to me. Making me run all the way through the country only to realize I was in the right place all along sounds like the kind of thing Nocturnal would do for fun."

He ran his hands through the wall's smooth surface. "Then again, so does making me run around for no particular reason – Aha!"

He lifted his right hand and lit a flame for illumination. Arya smacked him in the head.

"The _fire_, Colin! We're in a small space and it consumes breathable air – don't you ever learn?"

"Oops." He gave her a sheepish smile.

She sighed and cast a spell, brightening the room in a sourceless light. The wall, as she could see, was simply a wall, except for one spiral design in the middle. He moved to the side and she inspected it closely but could not for the life of it figure out what was it for.

"What is it?" She finally asked, giving up.

Colin traced the spiral with his finger. "Looks like a blood seal. Here, give me that dagger."

She handed him the weapon and he removed one of his gloves.

"Wait," She interrupted, "How does that even work?"

"It's a blood seal," He rolled his eyes. "You put blood in it and it opens. Theoretically. Some can be tuned to specific characteristics, but I'm positive it'll open for me, whatever the attunement is."

"Why so sure?"

"Dragonborn blood is a pretty powerful catalyst." He pushed the knife on his hand until it was tainted crimson. "Good for opening doors and gates. And closing them. Also, it's considered an exquisite drink among vampires."

He pressed his hand against the wall and, sure enough, the spiral lit up white as the red liquid filled it. Colin closed his fist and used his healing magic to close the cut, then put his gloves back on and popped the hood back up. With a rumble, the wall slid to the side, revealing a trail that lead down. Arya terminated her spell, joining both places in the eerie dim blue light that came from the path below.

"Last chance to go home, Little Elf."

She should have been mad, but the whole unlikeness of the situation actually made her smile. Nothing like life-endangering adventuring to take her mind off her woes.

"Not a chance, you weasel. Not a chance."

His chuckles were quiet, but between silence and the sound of dripping water, she heard him anyway.

* * *

_**Ohhhh, a chapter! After all this time?**_

_**Always.**_

_**Joking aside, I 'm real sorry for taking this long. Seriously. It's just that school suddenly decided they want two goddamn essays per week**_**,**_** and it sorta kills my writing mood. Also, I'm doing all those tests to get into university. Also, Arya is hard to write.**_

_**Even so, I could have gotten this thing out earlier, but then suddenly my country decided it was time to BURN TO THE GROUND. Now, I won't bore you guys with political details (unless you do want to know. In that case, message me), but hey, suffice to say, it's hard to think about writing in the face of something that looks increasingly like a state overthrow. Heck, I double dare you guys to make a story in the looming shade of a putsch. **_

_**Though now things have begun to calm down (I think. I hope.) and we're still a democracy - sort of one, anyway - so you could say I'm back in the mood. **_

_**About the chapter - I meant to write all the 'cave adventure' but it got too long and I was getting impatient - it's been over a month, dammit. So it'll be done in the next one. Unfortunately, that left this chapter with mostly exposition - sorry about that.**_

_**Thanks for everyone who reviewed, favorited and followed and stuck with me after all this time!**_

_**As always, thanks for reading!**_


End file.
